


fraternité

by Anonymous



Series: if needs must [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alpha Richards, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate History, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Claiming, Complicated Relationships, Consequences, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Developing Relationship, Dissociation, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Historical Accuracy, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Infidelity, M/M, Marital Problems, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Schofield, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Realistic, Realistic Misunderstanding, References to Knotting, Relationship Negotiation, Reluctant Sex, Richfield, Rutting, Self-Hatred, Separation Anxiety, Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Whump, Will!whump, World War I, Worldbuilding, duty to the nation vs preference of the individual, vague victim blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26710627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The facts of the matter linger unpleasantly: Will would be infinitely better off if Benjamin had gone against the Medical Officer's advice and not claimed him back in April.  Yes, Will is still whole in body.  But if he were not, he would be home, and not caught in this situation of compromising his honor of his wife for the sake of his health -- and perhaps he would be more whole of spirit.Lieutenant Benjamin Richards is minding his own business on the front -- leading men, not panicking -- when some random Lance Corporal stumbles onto his part of the line.  What follows isn't anyone's fault, but the consequences are staggering.[If you personally dislike it when an ABO fic says "and then they banged, and it was totally ok even though they already had S.O.s!" I can assure you that is not what happens here.]
Relationships: Lieutenant Richards/Original Female Character, Lieutenant Richards/William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield, William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Series: if needs must [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155560
Comments: 39
Kudos: 32
Collections: Anonymous





	1. April, 1917

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writeyourownstory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourownstory/gifts).
  * Inspired by [废城](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23259751) by [LittleDamara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDamara/pseuds/LittleDamara). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #rarepairhell
> 
> And also, I have feelings about how, academically-speaking, ABO is _all about_ examining gender- and sexual-dynamics! --and also (after like five months' worth of research) how uniquely-qualified WWI is for this. /sorry not sorry
> 
> (More seriously -- very literally, dubcon like WHOA. Were Schofield not a) concussed and b) in heat, he could negotiate much more clearly; but due to all that as well as the prevailing circumstances/attitudes of this time/world, he cannot. Richards does his best to allow him agency but it isn't an equal exchange of power _at all.)_
> 
> TL;DR: A story of one man who makes the best judgement call he can, the consequences of that decision for himself and another man, and the relationship that develops as they both try to mitigate those consequences.

Finally. _Finally._ Finally, they have Fritz running for the hills; _finally_ they can take it out of him, proper. Benjamin knows he's not the only one with his blood high, terrifying though it is to contemplate crossing the lovely open field between them and the Germans. 

Benjamin doesn't contemplate it. Thank God he has his countdown -- it keeps him from rattling out of his boots, though he'd never admit to it. He keeps his eyes on his watch and his men instead -- they're scared, certainly, but they're all good about it and put on a brave face. It bolsters the lot of them even as the seconds hand ticks inimitably towards their Fate.

"7th Platoon!" he shouts, watching the littlest hand march and pass the 12. "One minute!" 

He lifts his eyes to scan the men and --

\-- _what_ \--

\-- a man stumbles up to him. Something in Benjamin takes a keen interest in this newcomer, and he looks more closely --

"Sir!" the man shouts. "I've got orders to stop the attack!"

He's got different regimental badges -- he's a Lance Corporal. And -- he's -- he's -- there's something --

"What?" Benjamin shouts back, wincing as a shell lands nearby. 

"Where is Colonel Mackenzie?" the Lance Corporal demands. He is desperate, exhausted -- he needs help. He's no kit, nor even webbing -- no rifle, his helmet's completely gone --

Automatically, Benjamin turns to where he knows Mackenzie is, looking down the packed front trench, ready for the charge. "Well, he's further up the line," he says, utterly confused now. There's an attack on and they are due to advance -- what's the count, now? -- and there's _this_ man, who -- orders to stop the attack? Why? --

"How far?" the Lance Corporal asks, dismayed. It's all wrong.

"Three hundred yards. He's in a cut and cover," Benjamin says, clearly an impossible task with how closely the men are crowded here. He shakes his head to the man in case his ears are just as sorely tried as everyone else's with the bombardment. "You'll have to wait until the first wave goes over."

He intends it as an order and is already dismissing the matter. That this man should wait is self-evident and so it is not Benjamin's concern any longer. He barely hears the Lance Corporal say, helplessly, "No -- no, I can't" as he checks his watch and his men.

"7th Platoon! Thirty seconds!" Benjamin calls. Tension ratchets up the line, and also up his spine -- something isn't right. He doesn't know what, but something isn't right. He scans his men again and prepares to put his whistle to his lips.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement that isn't a wave of flinching. Fluidly, the Lance Corporal fits himself into the firing step, taking a cautious look over the soon-to-be-battlefield. A breeze picks up and --

Benjamin's stomach drops as everything clicks. "You can't possibly make it that way, man, are you bloody insane?" he demands, mind still hollowly processing _omega -- omega -- peaking, protect!_

Incredibly, the Lance Corporal seems to hear him. He looks back, eyes huge with something that isn't a heat at all: just sheer, bloody terror.

"What the hell are you doing, Lance Corporal," Benjamin demands, half-knowing already. There's only one thing stupider and more insane than sending an omega soldier on the verge of peaking right now. 

The Lance Corporal turns away and stands up, stepping onto No-Man's-Land as casually as a man walking on pavement down a broad boulevard in London. "No," Benjamin says, disbelieving. "No. No, no!" 

His instincts are screaming at him. There's less than ten seconds left and a vulnerable omega about to be under fire and Benjamin would dearly like it if the world could just slow down a bit--

\--on his watch, the littlest hand passes the 12 and he stuffs his whistle in his mouth and blows, hard, still reeling with the shock of it. 

~ * ~

In the aftermath, Benjamin is stuck -- disjointedly, unwantedly -- on that bloody Lance Corporal. No one should have sent him out here, not so close to a heat -- no matter how tactically advantageous, using (male) British omegas to lure German alphas into unplanned sorties is flat-out discouraged. Their own men would riot (and rightly so).

But, oddly, all Benjamin needs to do after ensuring his men are sorted -- three dead, four wounded; it could have been _much_ worse -- is follow his nose. Which . . . should not be a thing -- oughtn't someone else have seen to this? -- but apparently not; Benjamin only catches a whiff of it because he's near the Aid Post in the first place and, Lord knows, everyone else here is preoccupied.

His nose leads him to a tree. It's the only tree, the last of a row of windbreak that hasn't been mown down by artillery and an . . . entirely obvious landmark. 

The man lying beneath it is legitimately an assault on Benjamin's senses. The Lance Corporal is in pitiable condition -- covered in chalk dust, whiter than a ghost, and out cold. He looks as though he is dead. 

But he definitely isn't. _This_ Lance Corporal is one of the rare ones that throws the Army into conniptions -- he's a male omega, and he is bloody well in heat. 

Again, Benjamin is struck by the thought: who the _hell_ sent him? --No one should send an omega this close to her -- er, his -- time. It's like painting a bloody target on your man's back and letting him loose in a shooting gallery. 

"Lance Corporal," Benjamin says crisply, intending to get the man's attention. 

The man doesn't stir. His head is tipped forward, slumped as he is in the grip of sleep; he clutches some photographs in his lap, an old tobacco tin fallen askew off it. Letters have fallen out as well. 

_"Lance Corporal,"_ Benjamin says again, more annoyed. This also produces no response.

Benjamin's normal course of action would be a swift kick to the leg -- something to startle a man awake. --Actually, it'd be to get Sergeant Jones to do it. With this man, though, the thought just sets his teeth on edge as soon as he thinks it; _bloody_ omega, Benjamin can't even be properly angry at him. Especially when Benjamin could be doing much more interesting things -- like finding the exact source of that enticing scent, or making sure it--

\--No. _No._ No, no, no, no, _no;_ Benjamin is _not_ going to -- no. This one might be unclaimed and definitely ripe for it, but Benjamin is married, and happily so. Lydia may not be an omega, but Benjamin wouldn't have married her if she was. Moreover, she is a fine woman and a wonderful wife. Benjamin does _not_ want to be responsible for a) angering her unnecessarily, nor b) an aberration of mankind, which is what male omegas _are._

\--Not that Benjamin's feelings matter, according to the army. This man, desperate and dazed, stumbled into Benjamin's section of the line demanding the location of Mackenzie. If that didn't mark him automatically as an outsider, Benjamin can see from his uniform's regimental patches now, more clearly, that this Lance Corporal is not of the 2nd Devons; nor of the 2nd Middlesex, the 2nd West Yorks, nor the 2nd Scottish Rifles. As this man has no local ranking officer, it is entirely possible -- no; he remembers the discreet instructions. Benjamin is certainly placing himself in that position by taking an interest in this Lance Corporal. 

. . . for a very, very long moment, Benjamin seriously debates the merits of going forward with this. There aren't many.

But the one that does stand out -- shrillishly so -- are his own instincts, which are positively shrieking at him whenever he attempts to move away. It's not even that this _man_ is an omega in heat that is making Benjamin so reluctant to leave this to someone else -- Benjamin doesn't care for men sexually, particularly -- it's that _this_ man is obviously in need of assistance. 

Benjamin crouches next to the Lance Corporal and starts by putting his things back together, flattening the letters back into the tin. The photographs are next. Benjamin pulls them free carefully, suspecting this might be what actually wakes the Lance Corporal. 

It is. The man stirs as Benjamin tugs them from his hands. The photographs are of a woman and two young children, Benjamin sees when he gives them a cursory look; the inscription on the back -- "Your wife?" Benjamin asks casually, tucking them away and shutting the lid.

"Yeah," says the Lance Corporal, taking the tin when Benjamin hands it back. He rubs at his eyes and grimaces -- the hand he's using is bandaged, filthily. 

"So what's your name, then?" Benjamin asks, testing. There's something very wrong here. However this Lance Corporal got to the battalion, it was not an easy journey. Given the man's apparent lack of focus, Benjamin is willing to bet on a head wound in addition to whatever happened to his hand.

"Schofield," the man rasps. He pauses and then adds, slowly, "Lance Corporal. From the 8th East Surreys." 

_Definitely_ a head wound. An omega's heat might bring on confusion and lack of focus, but not with this sort of sluggishness. 

"Right," Benjamin says briskly. If Schofield here isn't wholly -- capable -- this is just less and less appealing, frankly -- well, he needs to be seen to by the medical officer at the very least, or maybe one of the nurses . . . 

He gets Schofield to his feet. The man is able to stand on his own, but when he tries walking, he sways terribly. Benjamin has him throw an arm over Benjamin's shoulder. Schofield is built a good few inches taller (not that it's apparent at the moment) and Benjamin is able to get him to make his way to the tents more easily after that. 

"I presume you were able to find Mackenzie, then?" Benjamin asks as they go. It's a long shot, but Benjamin really would prefer it if he could get Schofield somewhat more lucid. 

"Erm. Yeah."

"Was it a message, then?"

"Orders from Army Command," Schofield says automatically, straightening slightly. "Orders to stop the attack." 

"Really?" Benjamin is aghast -- and annoyed. They'd finally had Fritz retreating -- why on _Earth_ would Command call off an attack? "What for?" 

Schofield's burst of energy seems to have left him. "They were withdrawing," he says, sagging in Benjamin's hold. "Erinmore -- Erinmore said . . . new aerials. Their lines are miles deep." 

"Ah," Benjamin says, filing that away for later perusal. "And how was it getting out here?"

Schofield doesn't answer. He's leaning more and more heavily on Benjamin, now; his breathing is deepening. In fact -- 

It is a uniquely awkward experience, Benjamin finds, having to haul a concussed omega to the Aid Post while he is peaking. It is immensely relieving to be able to let Schofield slump onto a cot while he waves over a harassed-looking Medical Officer instead of having the man attempt to sniff his hair more. 

The Medical Officer who comes over is, Benjamin sees, also an alpha -- the instant he steps within four feet of Schofield, the MO blinks, looks him over sharply, and scowls. 

"Who the fuck sent him out?" the man demands of Benjamin. "Omegas aren't to be sent out when they're like this."

"He was sent with a message from the East Surreys," Benjamin says coolly, resolutely ignoring how his hackles are rising at the implication. "Besides the obvious, he's responding poorly -- I think he's a head injury."

"Got shot," Schofield mumbles. 

The Medical Officer stares, shakes his head, and swears quietly. "Right," he says to Schofield, and moves in slowly after a brief glance for permission from Benjamin. "Let's check you over and get you off to somewhere more private." He works quickly, washing and rebandaging the hand and locating and treating the head wound. When he is finished, he turns to Benjamin and says, "You're helping him?"

"I'm the officer in charge, yes."

"Then I recommend you claim him," says the Medical Officer. Correctly interpreting Benjamin's horrified look, the officer adds, "That hand is infected already. Having a claim to fall back on will help his body rally to fight it off."

"I've just _met him,"_ Benjamin manages to get out, desperately scrabbling for familiar ground even as it gives way beneath his feet. Given the way Schofield has been edging away from the Medical Officer and trying to tuck himself into Benjamin's leg the whole time, Benjamin has already resigned himself to performing, but -- a claim? That's a bit much to require of an officer.

"So have him find another alpha next heat," the Medical Officer says brusquely. "That'll break it fast enough. In the meantime, though, he'll have a better chance of coming out of this state without becoming a cripple."

And that appears to be it. The Medical Officer walks him briskly through the likely reactions Schofield will have and the basic care Benjamin will need to ensure Schofield gets in the process -- extensive, given the wounds he's got, but nothing wildly unexpected -- and further designates a pair of nurses to provide supplies and guidance if necessary. 

Benjamin is left with the unhappy certainty that whatever came next, it would be -- he has the sinking feeling he is going to regret this one way or another. But regulations are clear. Benjamin is the officer who took an interest. He could find someone else if he already had a claim, personally, but Benjamin doesn't; and he doesn't like the thought of finding some random alpha Schofield hasn't even _met_ to service him. 

(And Benjamin is genuinely angry, deep down, too. What alpha _wouldn't_ be compelled to take an interest in an omega who was _obviously_ hurt and in heat? It's a situation guaranteed to get the attention of any alpha and Benjamin's misfortune is that this one happened to stumble into him on the front line. Honestly, Schofield shouldn't even _be out here._ \--And Benjamin knows he's likely an entirely capable man, omega notwithstanding, but--)

The business that follows is as precisely uncomfortable as Benjamin privately feared it would be. 

By the time Schofield is moved to the more private space -- a tent that has been set up far enough from the Aid Post that it shouldn't be in the throng of constant foot-traffic but close enough for nurses to leave supplies nearby -- the Lance Corporal is definitely going in and out of lucidity. He doesn't fight when Benjamin undresses him, but he isn't happy about it either, even though he clung to Benjamin all through the ordeal at the Aid Post and, now, his body responds eagerly to Benjamin working him open.

Benjamin is also disturbed by how aroused he is getting over this. Benjamin has been around omegas in heat before -- had the pleasure of the company of two here in France (both women, not men) -- but something about Schofield's unhappy passivity sets his teeth on edge. 

It serves him well, though. Schofield cries out briefly when they come together, something both wounded and relieved, and it breaks the tension. The two of them start to _move._ When Benjamin hits his finish and the knot locks them in place, Schofield has finally slipped under the pounding imperative that Benjamin can nearly taste: the Lance Corporal is shaking, head thrown back, great gasps tearing free. Now is the time to claim. 

\--And when Benjamin leans in and noses at his throat, testing, Schofield whimpers -- and tips his head just that much further. 

It's savage, the instinct that goes through him then. Reluctant as he may have been at the thought only an hour ago, Benjamin finds himself licking the juncture of Schofield's neck and shoulder and then biting, hard. Schofield keens, high and helpless, and shudders as Benjamin closes his lips and sucks bruisingly. His legs tighten around Benjamin's hips and the noise Benjamin makes as he is forced deeper is, thankfully, choked-off and muffled.

The claiming serves its purpose, though. When the knot comes down and they are free to move again, Schofield doesn't do much more than murmur fretfully before he's out cold, just as the Medical Officer said he would be.

Benjamin eases himself free, feeling -- rattled, exhausted. It is hard to tell how much is from the failed attack earlier and how much is from this business, but Benjamin is uncomfortably suspicious it is the latter. 

\--What is worse is that, when he _leaves_ the tent to go speak to the nurse who has been assigned to assist, his skin crawls. Benjamin reports the situation to the nurse who, despite her attempt to seem impersonal, is carefully looking away from him in the manner that indicates an acute personal knowledge of the whole thing. She, quietly, lets him know that Schofield will likely sleep for the next four hours at the very least, and that he can attend other business -- if he needs, she will sit with him and send for Benjamin if Schofield wakes before then.

"That would be greatly appreciated," he tells her awkwardly, hurriedly estimating the length of time his business will take him. He needs to let his Sergeant know more concretely what Benjamin wishes done, he needs to alert Captain Sandbach about his current superseding duties, and he should probably -- all right, he definitely doesn't need to write to his wife about this, not yet. That can wait. "Perhaps an hour at most, if you wouldn't mind."

Her calm nod is a slight balm. This appears expected, accepted; Benjamin can't be mucking things up too badly with this, no matter how on edge leaving Schofield alone in the tent has him feeling.

Benjamin tries not to rush it. He really doesn't. He doesn't own Schofield, and Schofield doesn't own him; this is a temporary thing, and no matter how much Benjamin is -- yes, enjoying it! -- even so, it isn't right. So he speaks shortly with Sergeant Jones, keeping it as strictly as he can to the business he expects for the next day or so and what he wants Jones to do about it, and then spares even fewer details for the Captain who, at least, is used to this sort of thing given the battalion's directive from Mackenzie.

The entire time, though -- the _entire_ time -- Benjamin is on edge. It all feels as though he has elsewhere to be, a formless anxiety that is clawing at his insides like he's never experienced. Knowing it is because he has nominally claimed an omega in heat doesn't help -- just knowing what it is leads to a sort of resounding buzz like the gas alarms. He needs to be near his gas mask and he's not and this is utterly ridiculous -- but if it's so ridiculous, why is he feeling so frantic?

Coming back, the nurse is sitting quietly inside the tent doing some mending. She immediately gathers her things up and excuses herself. Benjamin is grateful for the privacy; he needs a moment to regain his composure in the face of the overwhelming relief he is suddenly experiencing. 

He really needn't have worried, though; Schofield is still sound asleep. Benjamin squints, but it's difficult to tell if his color is better or if that is wishful thinking. 

Some hours crawl by before Schofield stirs awake. He is coaxed into consuming a thermos of soup the nurse left behind and water, too, before Benjamin is needed specifically. The second encounter is -- not as difficult, Benjamin finds; he has an easier time of setting aside his reluctance because this time Schofield is clearly lost in it and demonstrates no inhibition on his own part. He is needy and urgent and Benjamin should feel much, much more disturbed by how natural it feels to acquiesce to the omega's demands -- and he does, after, when Schofield drops back into sleep, curled trustingly in Benjamin's hold.

With this man's weight in his arms -- Benjamin feels that there is something enormously terrifying lurking in the corners of his mind, now. Benjamin doesn't want to examine it, or at least not at this very moment; he suspects it will necessitate a great deal of alcohol and several hours of privacy to sort through properly. 

He gives it up and goes to sleep where he is, instead.

He dreams. It is surreal, how clearly he feels this. Benjamin has been a Lieutenant for the last four months and, entering the Army, expected advancement that was far and fast; he had been stymied by the sheer casualty, the brutality, and both the uncaring lack and paranoid expectance hyper-accountability brought. He has been floundering. Before now, before this claim, he would not have known it. When Schofield purrs and kisses him, Benjamin reciprocates wholly; it feels _right._

Slipping in a third time is heavenly, an alignment of the earth and the stars and the peculiar tooth-buzz of distant high-explosive shells that leaves Benjamin reeling. It is also why blinking into awareness flat on his back, Schofield's hands about his neck, is so shocking.

 _"Why,"_ Schofield snarls. His fury and the way his fingers flex threateningly are belied by how he roughly brings his hips down. His eyelashes flutter, briefly; somehow, Benjamin is riveted by this glorious image of Schofield, fighting to hold back a moan even as Benjamin's air is cut off and he struggles to breathe. Delightfully, Schofield pants, overcome for a moment as his hips roll Benjamin even more deeply than before: a rhapsody, an exultation -- a sight worthy of Benjamin's entire life. --Then the man recalls himself, and his grip tightens again, and Benjamin is choking.

"Standing orders," Benjamin croaks, feeling the pressure around his throat keenly. His instincts scream to roll them both over and take charge, but he also feels jarringly certain that something like that would be _exactly_ the wrong move to make. He stays still and lets Schofield take what he will. "And they told me it'd help with your hand." 

"I don't even know _your name,_ Lieutenant," Schofield hisses. Brutally, he picks up the pace; the beautifully-clear lightness of his eyes has been almost entirely replaced by a strangely-erotic black.

"Lieutenant Richards," Benjamin says, mouth dry. Schofield's hands tighten briefly but he doesn't stop Benjamin when he puts his hands on Schofield's hips and starts cooperating. "Benjamin Richards, really, but -- Ben."

That appears to satisfy Schofield for now: his grip slackens until it is more like he is resting his weight on Benjamin's collarbones; and, after a moment of frantic movement, Schofield whimpers again deliciously and loses himself. Benjamin fears he leaves bruises in the milk-pale skin of the man's hips, so tightly does he clutch Schofield to him. 

The third knot is brain-numbing; dimly, Benjamin makes a note to drink more water, himself. 

In his arms, Schofield whines as Benjamin stretches, and stretches, and stretches. He cannot keep up his hold on Benjamin as he doubles over; he fists his hands in the groundsheet around Benjamin's ears instead. "Enjoying this, are you?" he gets out, tightly.

Benjamin is not so wholly gone at this point. He hears the bitterness in the question. 

"Thinking about my wife, honestly," he replies. To soften it, he shifts until he has wrapped his arms around Schofield -- some omegas react badly to perceived rejection. "Lovely woman. Not an omega, but -- she's mine."

Schofield shudders. "Tell me about her," he says, hoarse. "--Please."

Benjamin obliges. He murmurs about his wife, a -- frankly -- riveting blonde, a true horsewoman, fond of polo and keen at cards. "She can win anything," he tells Schofield, shakily, in the chill of the early morning sometime during their fourth round. At midday, he confides, "I didn't think I'd find anyone who could keep up with me" as Schofield sobs beneath him during the fifth.

"Do you love her?" Schofield asks him that evening. The Lance Corporal is limp, exhausted; he barely stirs when Benjamin gets up.

"Drink some more water," Benjamin orders him, pressing the cup to his lips. Schofield is vastly more lucid than he was over a day ago, but he's still been sleeping for alarming lengths of time between each bout and there is the very real possibility that he isn't eating enough, no matter how much Benjamin is compelled to offer food.

Schofield drinks the water agreeably and takes the food Benjamin is reminded to give him. "Do you love her?" he repeats around a mouthful of beans, eating with the voracious appetite of one in heat. 

"Yes," Benjamin admits, finally, and feels that pang of absolute heart-wrench that comes from missing one's truest friend. "Very much so."

Schofield finishes the beans in record time, a desperate gleam in his eye. "Good," he tells Benjamin, setting the mess tin aside and wiping his mouth rudely on his bare wrist. "Good," he repeats, and seats himself in Benjamin's lap; and it is a release for the both of them, that they are beholden to others and entering into this with the expectancy only of function.

That's the last round. Schofield sleeps heavily next to him all night and Benjamin is acutely aware of his scent fading to imperceptibility. By the time dawn breaks the only trace that remains is tangled in the sheets and blankets of the cramped pallet they started in.

Benjamin finds that Schofield's clothing -- which he'd passed to a nurse to get put through the laundry -- is in a neatly-folded stack just inside the flap. Who knows when the nurse put it there -- he certainly can't remember. Distressingly, Benjamin realises that in the heat of the moment (if one would pardon the pun), he forgot to send his own uniform off; it's stained awfully and heaped, less neatly, in one corner. Putting it on is a disgusting prospect, but Benjamin rationalises that he really should have a wash before putting anything clean on, anyway.

He's wrestling with his braces when Schofield stirs awake. Benjamin hears him stretch but affords him as much privacy as he can and passes the uniform back without turning around. Schofield makes a surprised sound. "Thanks," he says. 

"Of course," Benjamin says, and goes back to pulling on his tunic. "How's your head?"

There's a silence. "It doesn't hurt so much," Schofield says cautiously. It sounds like he's started dressing. 

"Excellent," Benjamin says, pushing past the awkwardness and doing up his buttons with great deliberation. "There's some food here for us -- I think breakfast first. Are you hungry?"

There's a long silence. Schofield is definitely getting dressed. "You needn't wait on me," the Lance Corporal says, finally, voice odd. He comes up behind Benjamin to join him near the entrance and Benjamin feels free to look him over at last. Schofield is looking half-way to alive, and somewhat less like a corpse in a uniform that isn't -- whatever had happened to it. He still looks odd as he hasn't his kit nor helmet, but there's color to him that was absent previously. 

He also looks uneasy, and no wonder -- Benjamin's been buggering him for over a day at this point. It's -- not the usual thing, that is for certain. 

"I need to eat, too," Benjamin says lightly. "And I'm not going to eat all this myself; might as well share."

Schofield sits. Benjamin's fairly certain the stiffness is mostly from the activities of the last day and a half. Benjamin pulls the kitty over and dollops out -- porridge? -- generously to the mess tin, which he hands to Schofield. He doesn't wait to see if Schofield takes a bite before he falls on his own portion, eating straight out of the container. He feels ravenous.

But even sating his appetite (and this is the first time he's felt hunger in days, how bizarre) Benjamin feels keenly aware of everything Schofield does. The Lance Corporal eats slowly -- methodically, seeming to have to remind himself to keep going. It's the mark of someone who's had little in the past and often saves his surplus in anticipation for future such times. 

(Benjamin suppresses the wholly-unwanted urge to track down whomever is responsible for feeding this man. It's the Army. Besides, Schofield has the mark of a veteran. He can provide for himself well enough, regardless.)

They finish the food quickly enough. Benjamin glances around the space, ascertaining he has everything, and exits the tent.

It's a bit of a shock. The tent wasn't precisely private -- it was a _tent_ \-- but it did lend itself to the illusion of solitude. Exiting it for the first time in at least 24 hours, everything feels busy and bright, crisply chill -- is that _frost?_ \-- but now that the drive of Schofield's heat is over, Benjamin's senses are similarly dulling. It doesn't take but a moment for things to feel less overwhelming.

Schofield is similarly affected, but he's very good at covering it. He stands stiffly for a moment, absolutely frozen, before thawing and moving. 

Benjamin does his best not to seem overbearing as he shepherds Schofield to the medical tents. The officer from before is there and he checks Schofield brusquely whilst Benjamin stands at a discreet distance. He doesn't really overhear anything -- and it actually grates at him, the not knowing. Benjamin has to remind himself Schofield owes him literally nothing, nor has Benjamin any right to him whatsoever.

Nevertheless, Benjamin is pleased when Schofield comes over to him after being dismissed. "A clean bill of health, Sir," Schofield says formally. "Or it will be, as soon as the hand heals up." He pauses, and then -- stiltedly -- "Thank you."

It's -- entirely wrong. "No thanks necessary," Benjamin says, feeling his skin crawl. 

"Sir," Schofield says, but leaves it at that.

Benjamin doesn't know where to go with this. It's not what he's used to, nor something he's had experience with -- it's not as though claims are made lightly. It's the only one he's ever made, claiming Schofield, and -- there is more that should be said, surely. 

"Beg pardon," Benjamin says abruptly, as the thought comes to him. "I don't believe I ever got your name."

Schofield looks startled. "What?"

"You're Lance Corporal Schofield, from the 8th East Surreys," Benjamin prompts, and vividly recalls the exact manner in which he gave his own name. 

"Oh." Schofield blinks at him. He flushes, doubtlessly also remembering, and his formality is shaken loose. "William -- Will."

"What's next for you, then, Will?"

Schofield looks at him and down. Something creeps into him, draining the vivacity -- what little of it he had -- away. "Back to the 8th, I suppose," he says, closing off -- shuttering inward. 

Such a contrast -- there's nothing good to that. "Should I put in a transfer for you?" Benjamin asks, startled, without taking the time to think his words through. 

Too late, he realises how it could be taken. Schofield stiffens again, guarded -- fearful. "No need," he says, clipped and formal in the only form of defense he possesses from a superior officer. "You've done enough, Sir. I appreciate it."

Benjamin -- hates this. He really hates this. He doesn't know why, but he's certain that Schofield here hasn't -- enough. He hasn't enough in the Army to -- Benjamin doesn't know, really, but it is something that he surely isn't keen on returning to, and Benjamin thinks he might actually be capable of _helping_ \-- 

But as he bristles with all the persuasive rhetoric he can muster, he sees Schofield -- Will -- falling in further, closing off even more. Benjamin has pushed enough. It's -- time to let it go, no matter how much he doesn't want to, and so he swallows his discontent and holds out his hand instead. "Then I wish you the best of luck, Lance Corporal," Benjamin says, equally formal. 

"Thank you, Sir," Will says, shaking it briefly, and then he turns and he leaves. 

And Benjamin lets Lance Corporal William Schofield walk away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I would like to profess my profound love for two exceptional individuals, who are absolutely lovely: @writeyourownstory, who is simply fantastic -- if I weren't married literally and fandomly to others, I would absolutely stake my claim, but as it is -- kiddos, you get the shovel talk from _me_ if she deigns to entertain your offers; and @pavuvu who is my fandom wife, literally the most incredible human being, and also, seriously the sexiest brain I've ever met. Seriously. Thank you, darlings, for listening to me even if t'weren't your thing!
> 
> 2\. redhotpandas has an A/B/O 'verse that is definitely Blakefield ~~as opposed to pre- and unrequited-Blakefield~~! I've been brainstorming this with @writeyourownstory for like, two weeks? now? but they got the jump on me for publishing and the dialogue is STUPENDOUS. If you are also a fan of Blakefield, go [check it out!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26593267)


	2. August, 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes are from May, (May), June, July, and then August.
> 
> [Tags added because Schofield is literally just. You know, traumatised out of his mind, depressed as all hell, etc. Not so much dubcon this time, though: Will is most explicitly struggling with his desire for stability and companionship at the expense of his promise to his wife.]
> 
>  **Edit 10/7: added about 1400 words I _meant_ to have at the end of the chapter, but forgot to add to the end of the chapter.** Basically, there's more smut and additional character development. Additional section starts at "What little sun outside dims . . ."

Will sits in the trench, leaning against the wall. They're in the second line of trenches, part of the new front outside Queant. There's nothing much happening at the moment and so he finds himself struggling not to doze.

"Mail's come, boys," someone calls. Will startles back to awareness, briefly looking about for Blake -- if he's asleep again, Will can -- but it's just a reflex. Blake is dead (the world seems to dull a little more. Will pushes thoughts of his friend out of his mind -- soon enough, he won't even have to think it --) and Ellie sent Will a letter only last week; she won't do so for another few at least. 

"Schofield?" calls the man carrying the post. "Is there a William Schofield here?"

"What?" Will asks, surprised. He's loud enough to be heard, at least; the man spots him and waves an envelope in his direction, looking peeved that Will hasn't come over to take it off him yet. Will blinks and gets to his feet; perhaps something happened at home that Ellie needs to write to him about?

But the writing on the envelope is unfamiliar to him. Puzzled, Will looks it over for the sender and spots _Lieutenant B. Richards, 2nd Devonshire, B Company, Platoon 7._

Will feels himself -- pause. It is like there's a record skipping in his mind, how there's just -- a beat. His skin prickles under his shirt and he's not sure why. 

So he doesn't stop to think. He slits the envelope open and pulls out -- not just a letter, but several sheets of paper, all folded up. If he's going to manage this, he'll want to be sitting, first, so he goes back to his seat before opening the smaller -- the letter. 

_May 9, 1917_

_Dear Lance Corporal Schofield,_

_My apologies for disturbing you like this. I hope this letter does not come at a bad time. I may be overreaching, but I wish to reiterate the offer I made a month ago before we parted ways._

_Enclosed are the appropriate forms for posting a transfer to my platoon. I have taken the liberty of filling out the pertinent details from my end and have already signed it; all that needs doing is for your information to be added and for it to be submitted for processing. You would just need to ensure that your Captain gets the paperwork and he would manage the rest._

_I would like to stress that you are under no obligation to pursue this avenue. I have no copies of this and have not submitted anything on my end, and I certainly shall not trouble you further should you opt not to transfer._

_If anything -- I suppose, if anything, that I felt you found it easier to endure your time with someone else who would prefer also to be with another. Forgive my presumptions if this is not the case._

_Sincerely,_ _  
_ _Lt. Benjamin Richards_

Here, Will feels the need to take a moment to stop and breathe. It is -- it is a most peculiar letter. But the rest of the contents are precisely what Ben -- Lieutenant Richards -- said they would be.

Will isn't sure what to think about this. He feels -- a great deal, suddenly. There's a sudden, dizzying hope -- he knows no one in the Surreys, now, he'd know Richards at least -- and a sudden, awful fear. Because Will _can't._ He can't. He can't, and those instincts that are begging for him to take the offer can _fuck right off._

Damn Blake, _damn_ him for picking Will that day -- and then Will feels a surge of hot shame and grief, both, because it's not like Will had ever told Blake about being an omega or about what Will had been working up the courage to ask of the first person who had made him feel anything, after Thiepval, or -- or telling the general he was too close to his heat, or-- 

Will grits his teeth and breathes, deeply. He does his best to think of nothing at all and ignores the heat that trickles down his face.

He doesn't reread the letter. It's too much. Instead, he carefully folds up both the forms and the letter, mashing them as flat as he can get them, and tucks them back into the envelope. Then, he stuffs it into the inner pocket of his tunic, by his tin.

~ * ~

When William Schofield answered the call, he did not anticipate signing over his body in addition to his life.

He knew death was a possibility. Everyone knew death was a possibility even if they didn't understand what that meant -- none of them understood -- anyway. What mattered was that he was capable, he was willing, and he was a man. He is also an omega, though, and that was not so easily written off as patriotism.

When William Schofield answered the call, he did so under the implicit understanding that, although he would be away for long periods of time, reasonable accommodations would be made. His folly was in believing that meant that, even for one such as he, there would be allowances. 

That was . . . not the case. Such is the difference between Army regulation and individual interpretation, before Will witnessed the two intersecting. He was under the impression that prior commitments would be honoured but, as it turns out, prior commitments that are honoured are those that are conventionally accepted by society: seeing to a wife's heat. _Not_ having one's heat seen to by his wife -- even if she is an equally rare female alpha with a true and proven claim to him, neither bringing her to him nor sending him home to her -- and most certainly not to a beta. According to the Army, male omegas oughtn't exist.

When William Schofield answered the call, he believed his time to truly prove his worth had come: that despite being a failure of manhood (somehow) and an aberration of alpha and beta existence (both), _he_ could actually be of use as something other than a massive, cosmic joke. A man who was not an alpha -- regrettable. A man who was neither an alpha nor a beta -- inconceivable. 

So Will is stuck. 

~ * ~

Time marches on, as it ever does. They are on the line, and then they are off. Will ignores how other members of the platoon call him Scho and does his best to forget someone called him that at all -- it doesn't sound the same when it isn't coming from Blake.

After another month, he stops surreptitiously fingering the edges of the folded letter and puts the papers and the letter in his tin, at the very bottom. It is probably too late to send them in. Richards is likely dead already. (Will ignores the wild grief this thought provokes, trying to focus on the anger he feels about how he is irrationally mourning a man whom Will didn't want or ask to know, anyway. Sure, Will has still got a hand, but a one-handed soldier is a soldier swiftly facing discharge -- and he would be back home, having still kept his word.)

Ellie writes to him. Will manages to write back at least twice and neglects to tell her about-- he knows he should, but-- Richards is likely dead. It doesn't matter. 

He can see how she strains to find new things to write about in the absence of his responses and the guilt makes it harder and harder to put pen to paper. If he weren't such a coward, he'd just bloody tell her the truth.

~ * ~

By July, Will thinks numbly, vaguely, that he will need to bestir himself to make arrangements. 

Richards is certainly dead. Will has never heard of an alpha who let go of an omega whom he'd claimed, and Will never receives orders for a transfer. He will -- need to find someone else.

Then Will hears rumors of major action for late July and sees enough activity where they are to convince him the rumors are a certainty. It makes a wonderful excuse to put off telling anyone about his upcoming heat -- what are the chances Will would make it through in one piece, after all? He has seen so much wastage of life already that he is under no illusions about his prospects of emerging unharmed.

~ * ~

After the push out of Ypres, Will is caught in the uncomfortable position of still being alive.

Surviving has long since ceased to be a relief; this time, horribly, it is a source of panic. Will didn't know he wished to die so badly but it is easy to see how much less trouble it would be if he could just -- stop. His next heat is coming up and he still hasn't any solution. 

He feels the papers and Lieutenant Richards's letter as a physical weight. Will oughtn't have survived this battle, but he did, and now it is definitely too late for that transfer. 

His body might demand that he -- receive, from an alpha, but Will knows very well he can be satisfied in other ways. So long as he has someone to last it out with him and provide a facsimile of what he'd receive from an alpha, he will emerge unscathed. The injustice is that his wife is denied him while he is simultaneously expected to sort it out himself, either through willfully choosing to dishonor his wife or by throwing himself on the mercy of his superior officers. None of the men in the platoon are appealing in the slightest. When he tries to think about it, he realises that he knows almost none of them -- not so well as to trust them with . . . not like he trusted _Blake--_

The point is, so many have come and gone since last August that there isn't anyone left who remembers Will is an omega at all. Most undoubtedly think he is a beta. With a suppressed heat in December and the one in April being elsewhere, none have been confronted with any evidence to demonstrate Will is other than the beta they believe. 

That will change very soon. This August isn't going to be a suppressed one, he can tell already. It -- feels. Everything feels. And--

\-- _hands on his hips, gentling from the bruising grip of a moment ago as Richards recalls himself, hands that move to wrap around Will in a gesture of comfort. Breath, warm against his ear. The dread of hearing Will was owned, claimed, someone else's -- but then, instead:_ "Thinking about my wife, actually."

And the feel of Ben swelling to fill every aching bit of him--

Will starts awake, breathing heavily. He is unreasonably -- he is -- the air is humid, and cooler than the last few days. Rain pours down. He is sitting just outside a pill-box, nominally on duty -- but they aren't at the front of the line, merely holding a supporting position. No one cares about a sleepy sentry here.

Will feels the slight breeze as the hiss of the rain becomes more prominent like the keenest of knives, scraping his nerves. His sense of smell is becoming almost painfully acute and oddly deadened at the same time as his breathing begins to deepen -- the devastation of the battlefield is that much clearer but, weirdly, less nauseating. 

It is far, far too late for him to have made arrangements. If it's not full-blown in a matter of hours, it will only be because Will has been killed unexpectedly and the whole matter stopped in that way.

Will takes his helmet off and leans forward, resting his forehead against his rifle. He desperately tries to ignore the hole that is gnawing open in his guts -- the _want_ \--

\--he should talk to the Sergeant. It is Will's responsibility to notify his officers. It prevents dissatisfaction in the ranks. The Lieutenant isn't an alpha and will likely pass it off to -- someone. Certainly the Captain won't take the time to see to him. 

Will feels his thoughts start to race. A different alpha this time means the claim would be broken -- a positive, surely. But Will doesn't know anyone here, not anymore, and feels sick at the thought of getting to know one of them _this_ way--

(And inside, he's furiously, irrationally hurt. He's _claimed,_ now, isn't he? Isn't he?! Where is Richards now, eh? Dead, the bastard, dead, leaving Will to this _alone--_

\--this, warring with his own roiling guilt. The _one_ thing he promised Ellie he wouldn't do, no matter what, and here he is _wanting it--)_

Confronted with the bleak prospects now that he has survived the push out of Ypres and no one to turn to, Will is faced starkly with the realisation that, unwanted or not as it was in April, he desperately wishes that Benjamin Richards were around. Somehow. Forced as it was, Will has the sense that Ben hadn't been any happier with the situation which at least was -- something. 

(And if Richards is still alive, that means he kept his word when he said he wouldn't force Will into his platoon, and trustworthy, trustworthy enough to let himself go--)

But the likelihood of Richards being here is small; the chance of him being miraculously contacted in time for Will's heat infinitely more so. Somehow, this knowledge makes it easier for Will to acknowledge just how badly, how _selfishly_ he wishes it were otherwise. What he would give for certainty, the security of Richards . . . even if it meant keeping the claim.

Will doesn't know how long he sits there, stewing. He tries to calm himself to no avail for what must be hours; the rest of his shift, certainly. He only knows it ends because there is a touch on his shoulder and the man touching him ought not to be, no, Will doesn't want _him_ \--

"Schofield? You alright?"

Will shakes himself free of his mind. "Fine," he says, rough. "I'm fine."

"You sure about that, mate?"

"Yeah," Will says and gets up. He needs to stretch. Walk a bit -- just. Move. He has some hours to go yet before he's peaking. "All yours."

He thinks they watch him doubtfully. Will doesn't know or care. This is courting disaster, leaving the platoon like this -- there are . . . there are reasons he shouldn't do this, walk off -- he knows them but he _doesn't care._ He just wants to be _away._

He doesn't know how far he goes. The rain is pouring again, the earth sucking at his feet like it wants to personally drown him. The next pill-box over isn't more than a hundred yards but he thinks he passes it and at least two others; and no one stops him, all too miserable in their own wet hell to care about a wandering Lance Corporal. He does his best to numb his fear by concentrating on nothing so much as ensuring he places his feet so as not to slip in mud or slosh through puddles.

At some point, he becomes aware that -- there's something. Something familiar, out here, a scent Will recognises. Without meaning to, he's been following it--

He breathes deeply; mindlessly, his steps quicken, hastening him past yet another bloody pill-box. Whatever it is, it is close, maybe just a bit further--

Ahead of him, a familiar form. Lieutenant Joseph Blake steps out from around a corner, chatting with another man. 

Will _balks._ He jukes back and his feet skid in the mud, slippery beyond belief, until they find purchase and Will turns and scrambles back the way he came. He can't, he can't, he can't, the man is too much like Tom -- the way he cocks his head, the quizzical look, how his chin tips into bullishness and-- 

\--he slams into someone just a bit more solid than Will is and bounces off, knocking into the wall. He's reeling as whomever it is grabs him by one lapel and shakes him.

"You think you can just shove anyone, is it?" the man, a ruddy-faced Welshman, snarls. "Well fuck you, mate, you're no better than us, you fucking--"

Will is reminded vividly of something similar and nearly chokes. "Sorry," he says, immediately, anxiety spiking again. "Sorry. I shouldn't've --"

"Gentlemen," someone says sharply.

It is like the rain hushes to silence. The clouds don't part, but somehow a glow seems to shroud the speaker. Will has read such descriptions in prosey newspaper serials and florid penny dreadfuls but he has never, before this moment, experienced it in actuality. 

"Do comport yourselves with actual decency," Lieutenant Richards continues with some fond acerbity. "We're all Devons, aren't -- _Schofield?"_

To say Lieutenant -- Captain, now, Will sees the third star -- Richards is a sight for sore eyes is a woeful understatement. There is an immense rushing, like when he fell over the waterfall; for a moment, Will stands in a vast, roaring chasm where literally all else is superfluous but the man standing in front of him. He wants to fall into Ben's arms and feel them tightening about him; he wants to wrap his hands around Richards's throat and squeeze until the Captain's eyes bulge. And he wants it all whilst the man is fucking him, filling that horrible hollowness that seems to be all Will feels these days--

\--and just as swiftly as this rush of absolute, heady hunger, there is a terrible chill that settles in him. Richards would see to him, certainly, but Will shan't be free of the claim if he does. So long as Richards sees to Will's heats, Will shall be breaking his word to his wife. He is trapped by what he wants, what the situation demands, and what is actually a possibility. It is a death-knell. 

Up until now, the men he has passed have largely ignored Will. Captain Richards, though, has the exact opposite reaction: he _sees_ Will, sees the state he's in, and seems to immediately know precisely what is happening. His nostrils flare, his eyes darken, and, after a moment, he presses his mouth closed into a tight, thin line.

Will's mouth is dry. "Sir."

"We must have been closer to your regiment than I thought," Richards says after a moment of doing his best to appear unsurprised while clearly being absolutely shocked. "Or is it just that much of a mess where you are?"

Will does not think he understands. "Sorry, Sir?"

"That's enough for now, Roberts," Richards says to the man who'd been upset a moment ago. Roberts is looking uneasily between the two of them and seems to come to some realisation -- he nods, clipped, and backs away nervously. "Your unit's objectives in the attack. How far off did your lot wind up getting?"

Oh. He's asking how _Will_ got out here, assuming that Will's platoon failed to take their planned objective -- or just got massively off-track. "Not that far off," Will replies. "I . . . needed to walk." 

"I see," Richards says. Will -- is not misreading it; he _is_ looking Will over with interest. Richards is trying to do it subtly, but Will can see there is rigidity to his posture that suggests he is -- straining to hold himself back. 

There is an awkward pause. Will is halfway ready to bolt. He's not sure in which direction.

Richards starts to say something and stops, twice, before he finally tells Will, "You'll have to pardon my bluntness, but -- if you have someone in mind, you had best get to them." 

It is clear he is referring as to whether or not Will has made prior arrangements for this heat. It is a warning, too. --But now that he is here in front of Richards, Will finds the idea of having someone else wrong -- awfully, stomach-turning _wrong._ He shudders. 

He should lie. Richards has let him walk away before; Will knows instinctively that he would let Will walk away now. The claim would be broken.

"I--" Will starts, and stops. He tries again, but he can't get the words out. "No," he says, finally, ragged. "No, I haven't."

Richards's neutrality gives way to a slow frown. Will doesn't understand why and finds, rather, that he doesn't care -- he's too busy trying not to be sick at his own selfish weakness, letting Ellie down _again_ because he can't stomach the discomfort of denying himself the man who has claimed him. 

In the midst of his distress, a flask is thrust under his nose. The Captain holds it there patiently until Will takes it, uncomprehendingly.

"Have a slug of that and breathe," Richards says. "Stay here." And he deliberately turns his back on Will and walks back into the pill-box.

Will becomes aware that his breath is coming fast and short. He daren't move. He doesn't-- doesn't know--

(He knows what he wants.)

\--his hands are unsteady as he unscrews the flask top. The -- brandy? -- tastes unpleasant, but less vile than the rum ration. It burns just as hot down his throat and settles low in his belly.

He must have half of it. Still, he cannot seem to calm himself. One or two of the men here eye him with increasing interest; no matter what he does, Will doesn't seem to be able to escape their notice. He finds himself pressed against the cement of the pill-box wall, needing that tangible comfort, that reminder he only needs to face forward.

"Will."

It's Ben. Will breathes; he feels his chest expand along with his awareness, making him realise how narrow his perception of the world has become. Suddenly the men's looks are of simple concern, not possessive appraisals; the space around him is bigger than the wall behind him and the four feet of open air in front of him. 

Ben reaches for him -- Will shies away and Richards stops, aborting the movement, and withdraws. "This way," Richards says, calm despite the muscle twitching in his jaw. "Come along."

Bemused by the weird peace that has settled in him, Will follows. Richards leads him back through the maze of German trenches for some minutes, before going down one that takes them closer to the original front lines.

There is a pill-box here, too. It isn't as large as some of the others they've passed, but it appears to have a second floor, and it looks deserted apart from a few men posted outside. They come to attention as Richards and Will approach them.

"Not in use, is it?" Richards asks, relatively calm.

"No Sir," says one of them. "Was in use a few hours ago, though."

"Anyone come by to clear it out?"

"Yes Sir, almost right after."

Will processes the dialogue and feels a strange relief wash through him. This must be the waystation for omegas, then; the place where the Army's omegas ride out their heats with whomever is available. Will doesn't have to worry any longer about having to find an alpha, because Richards is the one who brought him here and that means he is the one who will help Will. 

But Richards doesn't push Will inside just yet. Instead he pulls Will back down the trench until they are a discrete distance from the two guards posted.

"Before we start," Richards says to Will in an undertone, "I want to know why you don't have any other arrangements."

Will feels the peace in him shatter and his pulse begin to hammer in his throat. It is exactly the question he doesn't want to answer.

"You didn't seek a transfer," Richards continues, quieter, eyes sharp. They follow the bob in Will's throat when he swallows. "But here you are."

Will looks away. "Does it matter?" he asks, starting to feel a bit lightheaded from the strain. 

"You didn't want it in April," Richards says baldly. "You flinch whenever I come near. I'm not going to do this again if it's just forcing myself on you." 

Will is, dimly, aware that he has begun to tremble, just a bit. He just wants this to _end,_ he's not here for introspection; he wants this demand his body makes sated so that Will can get back to -- to -- 

"Why are you here, Will?"

Will feels like he's drowning. He feels every breath clawing its way through his chest, somehow leaving him with less air the more he tries to get in. Why does Richards keep asking him all these questions? For God's sake, the man bloody claimed Will already -- what more does he need?

There's a firm hand on his shoulder, pulling him in, and another that pushes from behind at the base of his head until he's tipped forward, helmet knocked askew and nose buried in someone's uniform. Will catches himself against a body and pants, startled free from the spiraling trap in his mind. Each breath he takes now is something that calms him just a little more, smelling of mud and wet wool and -- Richards. Ben. 

Will is so tired of fighting. With his eyes hidden in the shoulder of Ben's uniform, it's not too hard to say. "I want it with you," Will says, miserable. His eyes are burning even with them closed. "I sodding want it with you, alright?"

Ben doesn't say anything one way or another for a moment as Will tries and fails not to weep. "But?" Ben prompts eventually, sensing that there's more to it.

Will pulls free and wipes at his eyes furiously. He can't stand the gentleness he feels in the man's arms, not right now. "I -- promised," Will gets out. Ben watches him carefully, but makes no move to hold him again. "No claims -- I promised. They wouldn't let me go home to her but at least -- at least none of them would have that over her."

That hits home for Ben. He nods sharply and it is his turn to look away.

Will wonders for the first time if Ben had been asked to make a similar promise by his beta wife, Lydia.

"Thank you for telling me," Ben says quietly.

By mutual, tacit agreement, they take a moment to sort themselves out, getting themselves back under control. Will finally masters his emotions and nods to show he is ready.

The two of them go into the pill-box and up a set of small stairs to a cramped room that has been hastily cleared. Someone has set up a bed in one corner (naught more than a threadbare mattress balanced on rusting springs, but vastly better than a groundsheet over grass). There is a blanket stretched over the doorway, too, and it is probably the closest thing to privacy Will's had in bloody years.

It goes to his head for a moment. There's a delirious relief in knowing that Will doesn't have to choose anymore -- the decision has been made. It's all moot now that Will is here.

"Last chance, Schofield," Richards says from the doorway.

Will turns to him. He opens his mouth but can't find the words, any words; Richards is watching him and, now that they're up here -- closed-off, more nominally private -- he isn't guarding his expression. Ben has a look of great hunger and a sort of terrible hope -- and Will is dead certain, suddenly, that he looks exactly the same way right now.

"I still don't know you," he says, hoarsely.

"I'm not so sure about that," Ben says softly, gaze lingering. 

Will laughs a little at that, hysterically, but Ben doesn't look for any more conversation. Will shucks his webbing and fumbles at the buttons of his uniform; Ben beats him to it, sliding into his space a minute later and helping him with the rest of it when Will's hands shake too much. And just as the last of it falls away, Will finds himself freezing again. He can't bring himself to initiate anything beyond this.

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do," Ben promises, hesitating too at this sign of Will's reluctance.

"No. No, I--" and he just, he doesn't know what to say. What words do you even use for this? Will wants this, Will wants this so badly -- but he actually doesn't, and he _promised_ \-- 

Ben must see something in his expression that makes things clearer to him. Perhaps Will's distress reminds him of the conversation they had outside. Whatever it is, Ben only pauses for a bare moment before he closes the last of the distance between them so that Will doesn't have to.

His lips are warm, pressed against Will's own, and soft. Will lets himself feel just that for a second before he sucks in a breath and relents; and there's a hint of heat, and a bit of damp, and then the taste of Benjamin Richards hits his tongue and it is impossibly good. 

Before he knows it, Will has his hand tangled in Ben's hair and is pursuing that flavour with the fiercest focus he's ever felt. Ben makes a noise that conveys nothing so much as agreement. His hands are on Will, greedy, pulling him in closer until they are pressed so that Will can feel the beat of their blood, nearly synchronous. 

Will thinks he loses a bit of time after that. It's never been like this, never, not with anyone; he's never been so caught up in someone's taste or smell that he doesn't notice when they move from one side of the room to the other or how they wind up in the bed until Will is suddenly aware that he is begging, feeling his mouth shape the word _please_ over and over again. It's the feverishness that tells him this is just a heat at all -- but it is nothing like what he's experienced before.

Abruptly, Ben pulls away, swearing foully. Will watches, shocked. The violence of his bewilderment -- rejection? -- is actually painful and Will's anxiety spikes and -- fuck. How has he gone so far so _fast?_ He tries to focus on breathing but only manages to whine as Ben snatches at his things -- there's a small flash, painted tin winking in the dim light, and the man returns with a breathless apology. Will still isn't sure what is going on but then Ben kisses him again and his weight atop Will lulls those frantic nerves--

Ben is careful, despite his obvious desire, and Will is startled to realise he _remembers this._ He recalls, now, the gentleness with which Ben treated him that first time back in April, when by rights Will ought to have expected otherwise. There are many alphas who are swiftly frustrated when their male omega partners aren't as prepared as the females are, naturally. But Ben is ready for this hurdle and soon Will has forgotten these reflective thoughts: once Ben replaces his fingers with the rest of him, Will loses his mind entirely in the liberation of their coupling.

He thinks Ben marks him again, an echo of the claim back in April. He feels the sharpness of it now, the way it grabs and holds his attention. It is something that also recalls memories, hazy ones, of sick confusion and desperation compounded by the way the world seemed to tip, tilt, and then realign on an entirely new axis. Will might not have understood what it was then, but now he realises that this pivotal flip which sets him on a new foundation is one that feels like Ben, that tastes like Ben, that smells like Ben; and it is Ben inside of him and Ben around him and Will _finally_ lets go. 

After, the closeness is -- it is. They are wrapped around each other. There isn't any demand in it; it is more of a, a need, a hunger. Will revels in the feel of t(his) alpha's skin against his own, the slickness of sweat between them, the heat of the joining that brings him back to reality. It is already humid but the temperature is cooler than the whole week before, and the warmth particularly is welcome; Will curls in closer. 

"You all right there, Schofield?" Ben asks, softly, taking the cue and holding him more closely. Will thinks there is a sort of weight to that question, a hushed awe that Ben is perhaps not aware he is using.

Will breathes in, deep, and feels clarity follow. He has the space and ease to do so, for the first time in nearly a year. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think so."

They lie in the silence for a while. There is still more to come -- Will hasn't peaked yet, and shan't for almost another day -- but for now, Will is content to leave it thus; so, it seems, is Ben. 

What little sun outside dims with the advent of evening. They cleave together twice more in that time. Between these encounters, Will feels his thoughts as sluggish things; they aren't altogether concerned with the morality of his choices. When he thinks of Ellie, he can do so without choking -- but he suspects this won't be the case when the heat subsides. 

He is vaguely surprised to realise that right now, though, he does not care. He is . . . he doesn't know how to describe it. 

Perhaps it is in how -- he just wants nothing so much at this very moment but to be exactly here. There's a sort of buzz, a sensation of drunkenness in lying like this, tangled in a sheet and Ben. Ben has his arms around Will; his thumb strokes over the blade of Will's shoulder idly, soothing. His heart is a reassuring, steady beat; Will feels it thud through him. 

And he still feels the insistence of his instincts, building. Will hazily wonders how it will feel when he peaks and he does reach that top. Before, he has gone through his heats with -- he _thought_ it was happiness? But now, when already his body delights in little more than tasting the salt of Ben's skin, the frisson of being bare against him, the intriguing headiness of his scent as Will presses against him and Ben's interest increases -- it is all so much more than Will has ever felt before. Before, it was maybe -- satisfaction, like a full stomach. This is like eating his fill of dessert with the repletion found in supper.  
  
"Already?" Ben asks, half-jesting. 

"Mmm," Will hums as he continues to mouth at Ben's collarbone, hips rubbing against the man with more insistence. Ben takes it as an invitation and settles back on top; his breath is sweet and he tastes like wine. 

This is how the evening fades and the night goes. Will loses track of their activities, suspended in a seemingly-endless period where his urgency rises and Ben, too, rises to meet it: with willingness, with eagerness, and with precision. 

The violence of the peak is wholly unexpected. It comes in the small hours of the morning and Will feels it like a shockwave, a shell's concussion. It drags him out of the contented doze he had fallen into whilst listening to Ben murmur things in his ears as he held Will close. Will scrambles to get his bearings in the sudden, overwhelming _need_ and feels Ben jerk awake as the scent doubtlessly reaches his nose. 

Will needs him, he needs him _now._ "Please," he hears himself beg, and doesn't wait for an answer; he moves without thinking and finds himself splayed across Ben's lap, fumbling. "Please, please," he sobs, but he isn't sure what he's asking _for,_ just that he is desperate for it. Ben certainly isn't stopping him, hands settling on Will's hips as he surges up, stopping Will's litany with his mouth and then muffling Will's ecstasy as Will takes him all in with one savage slide. 

This Will remembers later -- the frenzy of that moment: how the sudden gaping emptiness became impossibly full and finally, _finally_ started to ease with the immense, consuming pressure -- and the tenderness with which Ben held him as Will shook from the force of it. 

Less clear, later, are the memories of how Ben slips out of Will's grasp once Will is limp again. Will is still reeling in the aftermath and this just leaves him feeling even more unsteady -- for a frantic moment, Will is utterly bereft, left with _no one,_ a reminder of how every man who has helped him in this over the last year has died horribly, bleeding out into the mud -- it'd be just his luck to have Ben die now, just as soon as Will found out he wasn't already--

"Shh, no. No, Will, I'm right here," says Ben, and crowds close. He is strained, hoarse -- Will tries to get up. Something must be wrong for Ben to sound like that --

But Ben just leans in, his weight causing the mattress to dip. His hands are on Will: one on his shoulder -- Will feels a spark of pleasure-pain in the mark as Ben presses his thumb to it -- and one to his flank -- stroking, soothing. Both gently resist Will's attempts to get upright and, combined with soft, open-mouthed kisses that reassure him of Ben's continued existence, Will is eventually persuaded to cease, and then to take some water, and then to eat.

"Don't leave me," Will pleads, over and over. "Please don't leave me."

"I won't," Ben promises at first. Later, when Will is more demanding and Ben has to pin him to the mattress, he swears it: "Bloody hell, Will, I won't, I won't, I _won't--"_

With time, these moments climb into other bouts. The peak has come and gone, however, and although these other urges are still strong, they are lesser demands. By midafternoon Will falls into sleep, the first true rest he has had in some time.

The last of the heat fades in the early evening. Will feels real lucidity return to him when he stirs out of the doze he had fallen into. 

Unlike in April, Ben hasn't gotten dressed. He is leaning against the wall behind the bedstead -- reading a novel it looks like, or trying to, in the dying light. Will lies next to him. The hand Ben isn't using to hold the book is threaded absently in Will's hair. 

Finally free of the irrationality the heat brings on, Will is startled to realise he feels -- calm. Settled. This scene of close intimacy they are in is no strain on his thoughts, no weight on his spirit.

Ben notices he is awake. "How are you feeling?" he asks, solicitous. He lets Will move away, folding the hand into his lap as Will sits up slowly. 

Will catalogues the aches of the last several hours. He feels that deep, internal ache that comes naturally from taking it up the arse repeatedly in a short span of time, but no unusual pain that would indicate anything other than the expected use.

There's the mark on his neck -- it throbs pleasantly when he touches it. _Claimed_ is what it means, and Will stiffens, anticipating the surge of guilt and dread-- 

It does come. However, it is muted; it isn't overwhelming. More immediately, more predominantly, Will feels -- an unshakeable sense of security. 

"Better," Will answers, with some surprise. _Loads_ better. --Though, he supposes, he is hungry.

Ben seems satisfied with that, shoulders easing fractionally. He gets up himself and stretches hugely, then retrieves a bundle from behind the blanket door and shares out the rations that have been left for them -- presumably the best that could be supplied so far ahead of the field kitchens. Will finds he doesn't mind. For once, he's an appetite; he eats his half faster than Ben and could have eaten more.

It is all much more companionable than April. Will doesn't even stop to think about their nudity, nor the ease with which he can lean into Ben's space and allow Ben into his. It is comfortable, natural. 

When they are finished, Ben asks, "Given the time, do you want to leave now? We can wait until morning, I think, if you'd rather."

The room is very dark, now, the sun having set long since. Will thinks about it a moment, but it is an easy choice to make -- at the mention of returning, the weight of his panic and guilt and grief comes crashing back down on top of him. The reminder that this room is just a room, that there is a world and a war outside of it -- and Will has to go back to his platoon and lead his doomed section _alone--_

"Stay," he blurts, gripping the bed frame so hard Will feels his bones grate in his hands. He can't face it yet. "Stay, please--"

Ben reaches for him. It is automatic: Will flinches back and immediately regrets it with the way Ben retreats. The bleakness in Ben's expression is awful.

"Will, let me help," Ben says to him, low, hands out in supplication. "Please." 

"Sorry," Will gets out, feeling like he is about to fly apart. He closes his eyes and _forces himself to breathe._

One breath; two. Three. Each is slower than the last. Will nods, and then nods again when nothing changes; Ben's soft exhalation when he understands and then the feel of him tentatively wrapping around Will are the relief Will desperately needs -- the reassurance he isn't alone.

"I'm having you transferred," Ben says at last. _To my company._

Will waits for the self-recrimination. It doesn't come.

"Please," he replies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N, 2/20/21-- the fantastic @cadastre wrote [a beautiful one-shot titled _Allowances,_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304408) envisioning Schofield's first heat in the Army, based on phrasing from this chapter. Now is a great time to read it!
> 
> Original A/N-- Once again -- a tremendous thank you to the incredibly amazing @writeyourownstory, who, I feel, connects to me on a molecular level, particularly where our brains are concerned. Thank you, darling, for your wonderful patience for when I come up with the absolutely twisted and cursed endings to AUs like this even while you retain your (if I may speak plainly) frankly _intoxicating_ enthusiasm -- I'm having too much fun trying to come up with things that you like!
> 
> Love to both @JustJackboot and @mariajosefin for taking a chance on my . . . er . . . raunchier fics, and following me down anyway. Also, shoutout to @nahobitogay for their enthusiasm and general amazingness!
> 
> Lastly, I feel it necessary to reiterate how wonderful the other Longfic Lads (@wafflesrisa, @scientistsinistral, @LadyCharity, and @Pavuvu) are for their tireless love and camaraderie, and wish also to express my love for the exquisite individuals of the Officers' Club (@yonderlight, @Xenatheterse, @magicaltear, Sara, and Mango) who, just by existing, literally make my world a much brighter place. Thank you, all <3
> 
> Historical Notes:  
> 1\. Yes, the 8th East Surreys and the 2nd Devonshire were both involved in the 3rd Battle of Ypres. I rather doubt they were close enough for such a happenstance meeting to occur, but -- as you know -- if you give me an historical inch, I will take an historical league :)


	3. December, 1917

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: literally the softest sex imaginable
> 
> Scene dates: August, September, September again, September - October, September - October again, November, December.

Benjamin can't seem to stop himself -- he walks Schofield all the way back to his platoon. Ostensibly it is to quietly explain the circumstances, but really, it isn't necessary to visit in person -- a written and signed message would have sufficed. No; Benjamin goes because he is dead certain that Schofield will absolutely shatter if he doesn't.

Schofield is markedly more stable _now,_ that's for sure. Seeing him outside the pill-box a day ago, Benjamin could have sworn that, for a moment, he was back on the front line outside Croisilles. That is how skittish Schofield had looked -- so desperately afraid he was going to run across a battlefield.

(And good _Lord._ Seeing it a second time -- but after having _claimed him_ \-- Benjamin does _not_ know how he refrained from hauling Schofield into the pill-box right there and -- and -- well, he's not sure what he would have done. Probably acted even more like the monster Schofield undoubtedly, deservedly thought of him in April.)

But it is clear that the activities of the last day have -- done something for the man. He doesn't look so fearful, nor exhausted, nor dazed; and yes, Benjamin is aware that all of those could merely have been an effect of the state of mind being in heat produced. This is something -- more. Schofield seems to -- have a presence? Blast, Benjamin's not making any sense even to himself.

The point is that Schofield is more settled, yes -- but he's still . . . there's a hollowness, a fragility to him. Benjamin is afraid of letting Schofield go; he has a feeling Schofield won't even try to stop himself from falling.

So Benjamin is walking him back to his platoon in the 8th East Surreys. They are actually quite a distance and Benjamin wonders what drove Schofield to wander so far from his platoon in the first place -- but he won't ask that now. Schofield is so tight-lipped about his circumstances, it'd doubtless be a piece of work to pry the answer out of him--

"How long do you think the transfer would take, Sir?" Schofield asks, subdued. Without even pausing to think about it, Benjamin reaches out and squeezes Schofield's shoulder in comfort. He feels some tension ebb out of the Lance Corporal.

"It may take some time, or it might not," Benjamin says practically. "Normally, we'd have to wait for everything to get approved via Headquarters. I'd submit paperwork, Headquarters would check everything, and then they would approve it and send orders for your transfer to your platoon." 

Schofield absorbs this silently. Benjamin tries not to be too obvious about watching him and manages to do it mostly out of the corner of his eye -- it turns out that's good enough. He can see Schofield is withdrawing again, losing a little of the calm he had earlier.

Benjamin hesitates. He's not sure why. Perhaps he doesn't want to put unnecessary pressure on Schofield. Schofield has already agreed with the transfer; Benjamin doesn't want to push him away by seeming overbearing. But . . . on the other hand, Schofield doesn't seem too keen on returning at all.

"Practically speaking," Benjamin adds slowly, after another moment of silence, "I can see if I can convince your Captain to let me keep you in B Company even before the transfer goes through. They won't turn down my request, that much is for certain -- so I can probably talk your Captain around into permitting you to leave now."

Schofield sucks in a breath and his grip on his rifle strap whitens. "I don't want to do that unless you would prefer it," Benjamin adds, hoping to appear less controlling. Sure, he'd been _thinking_ of simply talking the Captain around without telling Schofield -- but now that Will knows, Benjamin feels obligated to abide by Schofield's preferences. It's his life, after all. "If you've anyone to say goodbye to, or--"

"I'd prefer to transfer immediately," Schofield states. He sounds like he is struggling to keep his voice level. Benjamin doesn't miss the short glance Schofield shoots him, either, as though he needs reassurance that Benjamin is still there. 

Oh, hell. "I'll speak with your Captain, then," Benjamin says, reaching out to grasp Schofield's shoulder again. As before, Schofield loosens at his touch and Benjamin is struck with the sudden desire to keep his hands on this man at all times. Maybe Will would loosen up enough to smile.

Benjamin has the distinct, sinking feeling that he is in _way_ over his head.

~ * ~

Will's Captain is not an accommodating man. Benjamin isn't sure what Captain Milton is trying to accomplish, but he becomes distinctly cooler to both Benjamin and Schofield and insists on following the proper channels instead of being reasonable. Likely he is homophobic, Benjamin concludes, and though he could try to argue his and Schofield's -- relationship -- is otherwise, he can tell it wouldn't be of much use.

So Benjamin and Will part ways. Benjamin does his best to leave Schofield reassured. 

The less said about the wait as the transfer is processed, the better. Benjamin spends the whole time preoccupied with fretting over Schofield's well-being. It's like all of May and June and July, but ten times worse -- perhaps because now Benjamin has a _guarantee_ that Schofield will be where Benjamin can take care of him properly, and it's just _getting him actually there_ that's the trick. 

It drives Benjamin to utter distraction. Schofield has agreed to the claim, but he is somewhere Benjamin has no power to help. The most Benjamin can do is write bloody letters -- which he does, anyway, so that Schofield knows he hasn't been forgotten -- and include such news as what position he anticipates Schofield will assume (he will become one of the Company's batmen, or if Benjamin doesn't need attending to, act as a sniper), any word Benjamin has heard about the transfer (not a bloody thing, though he has sent reminders to Headquarters to process the paperwork), or such bits of gossip as Benjamin thinks might be entertaining (at the very least, it will give Schofield an idea of the personalities with whom Benjamin works). 

This does not feel like nearly enough, particularly as Benjamin receives hardly any reply. The one note he receives in response only vaguely states that Schofield is well (an obvious lie, given the shakiness of the penmanship) and thanks Benjamin for his continued correspondence (not a lie, given how deeply the pen was pressed into the paper to write it). Soon, all of his Lieutenants are askance at his uncharacteristic temper. Benjamin takes to mandating an hour of silence in the shared dugouts just to keep the peace.

When Schofield finally arrives, they have (blessedly) just come off the line. Benjamin actually scents him, first, on the fresh autumn breeze; he loses his train of thought and pivots to face the direction of the wind. Lieutenants Perry and Blake, bemused, turn as well. 

Schofield is a bloody mess. Not outwardly, not obviously, but Benjamin can see immediately when he comes into view that Will has lost the certainty he had post-heat and is quietly, quietly terrified. 

\--Oh, he walks straight as is needed and with enough speed to appear purposeful, but Benjamin _knows._ He sees the rigidity in Schofield's shoulders, the white knuckles on the rifle-strap, and thinks, distantly, that if he meets Captain Milton and his stubborn streak in the middle of a dark trench, Benjamin won't have any qualms about knifing him and leaving him to bleed out against the sandbags.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he says briskly to his Lieutenants. "We can discuss this in an hour or so."

He doesn't wait to hear their response. Schofield has seen him and goes -- even paler than before? Damnit. Damnit, he already looks like he's gone through hell. If seeing Benjamin is enough to scare him this badly, Benjamin has his work cut out for him. 

But as he gets closer, Schofield seems to focus on Benjamin and he regains a bit of his colour. He stops and, for a moment, looks as though he dearly wants to reach out. He doesn't.

Benjamin takes it as permission and reaches for him instead. He takes Schofield's hand and shakes it as though they are old acquaintances, for anyone who is curious as to why a Captain is going to meet a Lance Corporal, and claps his other hand on Schofield's shoulder. Schofield leans just the slightest amount into the touch, some undefinable hunger in him; and Benjamin doesn't blame him in the slightest, because _finally--_

Benjamin arrests his thoughts and blocks them out. There's too much to be hashed out, first, and Schofield looks at him like a starving man does a Christmas feast. They need privacy. Benjamin is acutely aware of all the things they will need to speak about and doing so with the entirety of the Company free to come and go at their leisure is not conducive in the slightest to it. 

"Sir," Schofield says, struggling to maintain his composure.

"Lance Corporal," Benjamin replies formally, intimately aware that the only difference between them is that he hasn't been starved of anything. "Walk with me." 

He keeps his hand on Will's shoulder and tacitly directs him to Benjamin's quarters. Schofield is far too easy to push; he's gone and lost some bloody weight, and he didn't have any to bloody _lose._

"You're nothing but skin and bones," Benjamin murmurs indignantly in undertone as they go. "What were they _feeding_ you?"

Schofield has caught on to the urgency of the moment but is following Benjamin's lead. He has still, Benjamin notes, managed to hook a finger in some fold of Benjamin's uniform. Benjamin wonders how desperate the man must be that he is being so forward. "I ate," Schofield says automatically. Benjamin wants to despair.

"Tea," he tells the batman briskly outside his quarters. "And anything you can scrounge up by way of a meal."

"Sir," the orderly says. 

Benjamin closes the door behind them with a snap. This time, Schofield does reach for him, expression giving way to something frightful; Benjamin pulls him into a hard embrace just in time for Will to break down entirely. Will is easily four inches taller than Benjamin, but he shrinks in on himself until he feels far smaller than that in Benjamin's arms. 

Benjamin immediately reassesses his plans. He was hoping to speak with Will about boundaries, expectations for existing as a claimed pair while also being a superior and subordinate, but right now -- no. It seems that though it has been a long month for Benjamin, it has been even longer for Will.

Benjamin holds Will patiently until Will ceases weeping silently and his shaking eases. It is such a _relief_ to have Will close enough to touch that Benjamin honestly spends most of the time sickeningly thrilled, giddy at the freedom to comb his fingers in the short hairs on the back of Will's head and breathe him in to Benjamins' heart's content. But at the same time, the vulnerability -- the trust -- it is odd that _this_ can cut so deeply. Benjamin has held men who are dying, comforting them in their last moments; and yet, it seems that this is what makes him ache.

They eventually recollect themselves. It would be more awkward if it weren't for the honest consolation they apparently both find in each other's presence. 

Will is splashing his face with some water in the wash basin by the time the batman returns. The orderly serves tea and sets out some sort of stew and, after eating it all, Will appears significantly less likely to fall apart. 

"Better?" Benjamin asks quietly when Will pushes the bowl away. 

Will rubs at his eyes. He looks exhausted. Benjamin wonders if it's the crying jag, the full meal, Benjamin's presence, or some combination thereof that causes Will to look like he is ready to sleep for a week. "Yeah," Will responds, and makes an effort to shake the lethargy. "I mean -- yes, Sir."

Benjamin makes a face. "Please, when it's like this -- just Benjamin," he says. Should he call for more tea? --Seeing how Will is starting to nod off despite his best efforts, Benjamin decides it's probably better not to. "Ben, if you like," he adds as an afterthought.

Will hesitates, maybe on the verge of protesting -- but all he says is, "I'm Will, then."

"Well, Will," Benjamin says lightly, "your first order in my Company is to get some sleep. Take my bed for now; we'll get you sorted when you wake up."

"Shouldn't treat me any different," Will mutters, but he is fighting to stay awake now. He goes along willingly enough as Benjamin chivvies him over until he's stretched out in Benjamin's cot. He is asleep before his head touches the pillow. 

Benjamin is astonished then. The sense of satisfaction he feels at this sight, satisfaction derived from having comforted and fed this man, seeing to his needs -- it is like nothing Benjamin has ever felt. It's almost like the rush one feels from those Forced March pills, only less sharp and more sustaining. 

Benjamin would like to stay. But he cannot; he has other things to do. He cannot quite resist smoothing some of the wrinkles in Will's brow away with a thumb before he leaves, though.

~ * ~

Will sleeps all that afternoon and evening. He stirs only once, briefly, when Benjamin lightly shakes him in the evening; Will makes a soft noise that indicates he isn't awake in the slightest and rolls to the side, and Benjamin finds that although he wasn't planning on it, he is sliding onto the cot as well. Will fits exceedingly nicely under one arm.

He wakes to Will jolting upright, fighting to be free. Benjamin moves back in a hurry but doesn't quite avoid getting clipped by Will's -- elbow? -- taking it solidly to his ribs. He grunts in surprise. 

Will shoves himself into sitting, twisting around -- and freezes, seemingly confused by Benjamin's reaction. It certainly can't be that he sees Benjamin at all -- it's late September and the sun hasn't risen yet.

"Nightmare?" Benjamin asks hazily, only partly-awake. Odd; normally he'd be jolting awake as well.

Will flutters a hand across Benjamin's face, tracing its contours in the darkness. He exhales suddenly and explosively in relief.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, something like that."

Benjamin rubs his face. He can feel the tension in Will's frame; Will is probably too awake now to do something sensible like curl up back where he fits so pleasingly. Goodness knows he has slept for hours at this point. "If you want something to eat I squirreled away some cheese and bread in the desk drawer," Benjamin says, still not waking up properly. He sits up anyway and reaches for the lamp, flicking it on and squinting at the light. "What bloody time is it?"

"Erm . . ." he hears behind him. Benjamin looks back and sees Will looking equally blinded by the sudden lamp light, but checking his watch. The man didn't do more than shuck his kit when he got into the cot, goodness. "Looks like four."

"All right," Benjamin says, and suppresses a groan. Now's as good a time as any, he supposes. "Guess we can get up, then."

Benjamin splits the food he's got with Will and nibbles half-heartedly at it, doing his best to look Will over surreptitiously whilst he does it. In the lamp's light, Will is looking much more alert and much less nervous -- both excellent indicators that he has started to recover, at least a little, from a month of separation. He doesn't seem put off by their closeness, sitting as they are side-by-side on the cot; on the contrary, he seems relieved to be here, and keeps brushing up against Benjamin as though checking that Benjamin is still there.

It is still very, very early. It seems like this is the best time -- Benjamin and Will can finally get down to brass tacks. 

"I'm glad you're here," Benjamin says, tone carefully light, as he watches Will neatly eat the last crust. "I'm told I've had a bloody awful temper the last month."

Since he is looking, he is rewarded with something astonishing. Will's eyes crinkle just the slightest; one corner of his mouth twitches upwards. In a flash, the expression is gone, but Benjamin knows it was a smile.

"Now that you are here, though, we need to determine our expectations for this," he continues when Will doesn't say anything, and makes a vague motion to indicate them both. "You and I both know this is only until this war is over and you are home again." He leaves out the obvious; Will is already thinking it, Benjamin can tell. "What aren't you comfortable doing before that happens?"

Will either does not expect this or hasn't thought of it previously. He looks away and breathes out, and then looks at the wall. Benjamin waits. He needs to give Will the opportunity to think this over, seriously. 

After a moment, Will stirs and says, "No -- no sex. Outside of heats."

"I would prefer that as well," Benjamin agrees, ruthlessly overriding his instinctive urge to be offended at the implication that he would demand something like that. Some alphas may take advantage of this sort of situation, and while that sort of power-hunger is not Benjamin's predilection, Will does not know that -- yet. "We don't have to share a cot, either. I didn't mind last night--" and then he has to stop before he blithely adds he'd _prefer_ it, even, because . . . that's not really appropriate, is it? Wanting to sleep with someone -- a man, too -- even more so than Benjamin wants to sleep with his wife beside him.

"Of course," Will says, voice odd. He seems to be struggling with something similar -- maybe -- well, he looks a bit stressed. "I-- Could I sleep in the same room, at least?" 

It costs him something to say it. "Absolutely," Benjamin assures him immediately, feeling relieved. It's an acceptable compromise and, too, not unusual for an officer's orderly to share the room with the officer in question. "On the line, you'll be in the officers' dugout -- I'm certain we can squeeze you in, though it may be in where the stove is."

(. . . and Benjamin can think about how -- _safe_ it felt to be curled around Will all night some other time.)

Will nods. His shoulders have dropped a touch and his usual expression has lightened to something a little softer, a little more relieved.

"Now," Benjamin says, moving on to the last topic he feels they really need to discuss. "What are your preferences about touching?"

Will shrugs. "I don't mind it," he says, and looks as though he'd say more, but he stops and closes his mouth. He looks down to where their knees are brushing, angled as they are on the cot so that they can see each other. "I --" he tries again, but ends up just repeating "I don't mind it," and looks, briefly, guilty.

"All right," Benjamin says simply. Inwardly, he is relieved that he doesn't have to fight for it -- Will so clearly needs the tangible reassurance. "I'll try to keep it when it's just us, if you would prefer, and only the minimum if we're not in private. As for myself -- you are welcome to seek me out at any time if you need; I ask only that you not interrupt my meetings with my Lieutenants, should I have them."

Will nods, and swallows, and nods again. "Thank you," he says. It is odd. He is clearly eased by the frank discussion -- probably relieved at having definite boundaries, parameters to this claim that clearly differentiate it from the relationships they have with their wives -- but there's a flavour of self-loathing to it. Benjamin doesn't like that at all.

"Will," Benjamin says seriously, and despite his instincts, doesn't reach out to provide a comforting touch (though he'd like to) when Will meets his eyes. "Whatever we have to do to get through this war -- don't let it burden you. I'd like to get home at the end of it and still have a modicum of my sanity, and having this . . ." he gestures between them. "--This can help with that, I think. Let it help with that for you, too."

There's a strange expression on Will's face by the time Benjamin is done, but it transmutes to a sort of thoughtfulness as well -- and then they are both startled apart as the orderly knocks on the door and enters, bringing with him hot tea and a better breakfast. 

~ * ~

Will slots neatly into the Company. He does his part in looking after Benjamin's and the other officers' things and turns out to even have a touch of skill in cooking -- he can always make tea that tastes like tea, certainly. And when he isn't acting as someone's batman, he takes his turn at the sniping posts and pulls his weight. As far as Benjamin is aware, Will ruffles no feathers, stirs up no trouble. He is a quiet man and remains so to nearly everyone. 

As Benjamin and Will both keep to the limits the two of them agreed on, the awkwardness of being thrust into this sort of relationship disappears. Over time, Will opens up more -- just a little. Soon it is not unusual for them to exchange a few words of more personal conversation and Benjamin starts to learn more of Will's quiet humour and sharp wit. Benjamin learns what elicits that elusive half-smile of Will's and swiftly finds that he is able to coax it out of hiding at least once or twice a week. 

Lydia writes. She isn't pleased with the situation in the slightest. _Dearest,_ she writes, _I know you take your duty seriously and your instincts drive you to protect that which you consider yours, but why can't you just delegate this duty to one of your subordinates? You have written to me before about your fine Lieutenants -- I am certain one of them can provide the same care you doubtless demand of yourself._

\--And it isn't even a terrible point when Benjamin sits and considers it. Benjamin would still have some control over the situation as Will would still be a man of Benjamin's company and whomever would take over for Benjamin would also be his subordinate. 

But all this, unfortunately, is not the consideration which Benjamin gives the greatest thought towards. Benjamin instead finds himself torn over what he knows about Will. 

Benjamin doesn't think Will knows how much he told Benjamin in that little pill-box during August. Unburdened by a concussion or fever, Will was free to babble -- which he did. Benjamin still feels gooseflesh ripple down his spine when he remembers how Will's voice cracked when he thought Benjamin had left. Will pleaded to anyone in hearing for help in finding him with, "They're all dead. He can't be, too, please--" and, madly, started trying to get up to actually go looking for him. Even the remembrance of it makes Benjamin feel frantic, desperate to soothe.

No. Benjamin is honestly not certain whether Will would survive being passed over to a different alpha. After over a year of losing everyone, Will is simply too fragile.

 _My darling,_ Benjamin writes back after several days of mulling it over, _I cannot in good conscience do that. Please, I know it is difficult to understand -- but let me reassure you that_ you _are my wife, and my opinions on omegas remain unchanged. You are the partner of my heart and I do not want for more. Once the man is discharged back to his own wife, I shall not need to continue in this role and he and I will both be delighted to break off this connection._

~ * ~

(There are other considerations as well. Considerations like the sense of peace Will brings Benjamin, just from the thought of him. The relief Benjamin feels when he is able to casually squeeze Will's shoulder, a touch that always, _always_ makes Will relax. The satisfaction of watching Will sleep soundly in his cot in Benjamin's quarters, or the dugout on the line, and knowing that Will is _right there_ and so, so soothed by Benjamin that he's finally losing those horrible shadows in his face. Just being the one who causes Will to regain some semblance of who he must have been before the war-- 

Well. In his quietest moments, Benjamin can admit it is far more intoxicating -- far more rewarding than anything he's done before.

But even as Benjamin chalks up his successes, the facts of the matter linger unpleasantly: Will would be infinitely better off if Benjamin had gone against the Medical Officer's advice and not claimed him back in April. 

Benjamin had surmised Schofield was a soldier of some experience here on the Front even back then, in the morning after his heat. It wasn't until he requested a copy of Schofield's attestation papers that Benjamin realised he had been serving since late 1915. In all of that time, he managed to make it home approximately once -- and it wasn't during any of his heats.

Yes, Will is still whole in body. But if he were not, he would be home, and not caught in this situation of compromising his honor of his wife for the sake of his health -- and perhaps he would be more whole of spirit.)

~ * ~

\--But of course, this is all just a side-show. Benjamin and Will are in the Army, and the Army is at war. They are back on the line at the edges of the boggy, muddy sludge that is what is left of the land after the push out from the Ypres Salient in November when the Brass decide to spice things up a bit. 

The 2nd Devons are to take point in an advance. The objective is to take a small ridge in the middle of No-Man's-Land and dig in, pressing the trenchline forward. It is to happen at night, at least, which means they shall have the cover of darkness -- but it is the only such advantage they shall have. They are to go at it alone without warning the enemy of their onslaught through such pedestrian means as artillery cover.

As Benjamin explains this to the lieutenants, he can see they are not happy. Perry frowns, shown only through the slightest furrow in his brow -- he's the first lieutenant and the best at hiding his expression. Blake rubs his mouth in a blatant cover to hide how the corners of his mouth turn down where he sits on his bunk. Graham rocks on his heels; Langley covers a yawn. (Orders or not, he's been up since before the sun, and it is now well past 8.00 in the evening.)

"No covering fire, Sir?" Graham asks politely, as though hoping he has misheard.

"No," Benjamin says calmly, only managing by not thinking about the exact implications too hard. "The Colonel is certain we will be able to take the ridge by stealth."

There's a frigid silence. "Of course, Sir," Graham says in it, after a lengthy pause.

"Well," Benjamin says when it is clear no one else has anything to say, "feel free to turn in, gentlemen. We'll be leaving in four hours and I can wake you if you need."

"Sir," Perry and Langley chorus. Blake nods sharply, Graham -- less so.

Benjamin, true to his word, stays up. He sits at the dugout and writes to Lydia; then he writes to each of his sisters -- Anne, Georgiana, Elizabeth, and Victoria. It is not that Benjamin expects to die -- he is rather determined not to be killed -- but he thinks it better to be safe than sorry. 

Just under two hours before they must start preparing for the advance, the dugout is silent. Blake and Langley are snoring in their bunks; Perry seems to be nodding off over some letters. Graham is out, seeking fresh air. Will comes up to Benjamin, quietly replacing Benjamin's empty cup with a fresh one of hot tea. It is a blessing. 

Ah -- yes. Benjamin almost forgotten. He stops Will as he moves away, back towards the tiny kitchen in the back of the officers' dugout. "No -- sorry, Will, a moment?"

Will blinks, but comes back over. Benjamin motions that he should sit and studies Will for a long moment in silence after he does so.

"It has occurred to me that I owe you an apology," Benjamin says at last, weighing each word carefully. It isn't as though he expects to die. Perhaps he just feels the necessity of clearing the air after writing so many letters to his family. "I should not have claimed you back in April. In retrospect, I feel that you would have been better off if I -- refrained."

Will has gone as still as a stone. "There's no need to apologise," he says, finally. There is uncertainty in it -- even a little concern. Benjamin can see that Will doesn't know why he is bringing this up now and he isn't sure what Benjamin means by it. 

Benjamin snorts a bit. "Then perhaps I should apologise for how little I regret what has happened since!" he says, dryly, and waves off Will's surprise before continuing, dead earnest. "--But never mind that. I do truly regret my part in having put you in a position where you have to stay in this blasted war." 

Will doesn't appear to know what to say to that, blinking a little -- but then his eyes sharpen and he studies Benjamin with a sudden, surprising intent. Benjamin isn't sure what Will is thinking. He can't quite read Will's expression, blank as it is (and perhaps, he doesn't want to. He was never one to claim selflessness). Instead, he just sits for the moment and lets Will divine what he can. 

Finally, Will nods. "I appreciate that," he says, softly.

Uncharacteristically, Benjamin doesn't know what to say in response. So he picks up the letters and hands them over instead. "Be a good man and post these for me, will you?" he asks, changing the subject. 

Will looks at the letters and then at Benjamin. He huffs and -- did he just _roll_ his eyes? "Of course, Sir." 

"And get some rest," Benjamin adds as Will takes them and stands. "We've a few hours yet." 

Will nods, appropriately distant again. He's got a bunk in the tiny kitchen, along with the other batmen. Benjamin hasn't any idea whether he will actually sleep or not, but even as Will looks back at him from the little doorway before disappearing, he has no doubt Will won't come back out with any more tea.

~ * ~

(It's a bloody business, it is. Afterwards, Benjamin isn't sure how he survives, nor Will, either -- Will, who had insisted on staying with him all the way through, even in a perfect hail of machine guns and rifle fire. They made it out to the ridge and dug in, and by the morning, they had a new trench to hold. It was little enough, but they damn well held it.)

~ * ~

Off the line. And just in time; Will is due in the early part of December (he seems certain it will be the 5th) and Benjamin feels he might go ballistic if he had to tend Will in freezing mud. The man is tall and that means he has a lot more of him to be chilled.

\--And Benjamin would -- he would like to try to make this third time a nicer experience than the past two. That first time was -- not the best. The second time was -- well, if Will had put in for a transfer, Benjamin certainly would have made an effort to secure better accommodations. Benjamin knows Will does not see him as any sort of life-long partner, that this arrangement is temporary and contingent only on them being away from home and their usual partners, but even three months' worth of efforts in getting Will to open up and find himself on better footing has not gotten Will to the point where he actively wishes to live again. For this third time, Benjamin would like to give him some comfort. (And third time's the charm, right?)

He has just finished his efforts in cleaning himself up when a messenger appears. "Sir," the messenger says, and hands over the slip of paper.

It's from -- ah, right. Mackenzie is dead, then; Benjamin had heard word to that effect but nothing substantive. Lieutenant-Colonel Hepburn asking him to headquarters, though, confirms it. 

Damn. He and Will arranged to meet here in . . . all right, so Benjamin has two hours; he is certain whatever it is will not take that long. He has more than enough time.

"Make sure that bath is filled again in an hour and a half, yes?" he asks with the company orderly -- Private Jensen -- outside his door. Benjamin gave Will the afternoon off to settle himself as he felt necessary for this evening.

"Sir," Private Jensen says, and out the door goes Benjamin.

Battalion Headquarters are busy. The energy is far more positive than Benjamin can recall from the past month, which is a pleasant change. Hepburn greets him when he is announced and gets right to it, shooing most of the others in the room out the door. Only an orderly remains, a man who, at Hepburn's nod, pours them both a drink.

"Thank you, Sir," Benjamin says, surprised. He takes it with every outward sign of enjoyment he can manage, while his thoughts race. Either he's being promoted or he is being transferred; there isn't any other reason to begin this conversation with whiskey, not when Benjamin and Hepburn aren't more than professional colleagues. 

"It is my pleasure, for such a fine Captain," says Hepburn. "You did well in our last action. B Company distinguished themselves, setting down that new line."

"I can only commend the men. They are fine boys, all very stout of heart," Benjamin demurs, though not without real pride. He mourns the loss of the twenty men in that attack and does his best not to dwell on bitter thoughts of having to learn new names and faces that he fears he will only need to forget again all too swiftly. "I am fortunate to be their captain."

Hepburn nods, seeming to accept these platitudes. "Nevertheless," he replies, "there is something to be said about needing a fine Captain to make a fine Company. As such, I have a proposal for you, and I'd like to hear your thoughts on it."

This is it, then. Benjamin wonders what sort of promotion or transfer would necessitate whiskey. "Certainly, Sir," he says.

"As you are aware, we are now short a Major," says Hepburn. There is the briefest shadow of sadness over his expression, and little wonder -- he and Mackenzie had a personal friendship besides their professional one. But Hepburn is an old soldier and the grief doesn't linger more than a few seconds. "I would like you to take up the position."

Benjamin blinks despite himself. He . . . hadn't expected that. There is something he feels, but -- it is swiftly subsumed by a feeling of absurd delight, and pride. 

He thinks Hepburn sees a little of this. Even so, the Colonel doesn't wait for Benjamin to reply before he adds, "You know all of the Battalion officers, Lieutenants included, and are generally considered popular with the soldiers; and no one can fault your courage nor your capabilities after Ypres and the action on the line a week ago."

"Sir," Benjamin says, with feeling. "I would be honored, Sir."

"Then I'll put in the paperwork at once," Hepburn says. "Congratulations, Major Richards -- I look forward to working with you in the coming weeks." 

"Likewise," Benjamin says. And with that, the conversation turns to a brief discussion hashing out the particular observations of the action a few weeks ago. Benjamin learns how the other companies fared with more detail and also something of what Hepburn perceived the strengths of the Devons to be, and finds, furthermore, that Hepburn is highly receptive to Benjamin's own observations and thoughts.

So much so, in fact, that Hepburn warms up to him. At the end of the drink, Hepburn looks him over thoughtfully and says, "Now -- I know it is sudden, but can I expect your assistance tomorrow? I feel it is best for us to make the most of our time off the line so that it is a smoother experience when we go back to the Front."

It is an invitation -- an invitation for a lot of things, but chiefly a closer working relationship. It is thrilling. Benjamin is on the verge of agreeing before he recalls that, in fact, he has obligations -- and damn it, he almost forgot. 

Benjamin feels free to demonstrate the regret he feels when he says, "I am terribly sorry, Sir, but I do have another obligation for the next two days. I have to decline."

"Oh? What sort--" Hepburn cuts himself off, eyes going distant for a moment, before saying, "Ah. It's that soldier, the omega who transferred into your Company a few months ago, isn't it?"

Benjamin is glad Hepburn remembers the notice Benjamin had submitted over a week ago, back when Hepburn was the Major and responsible for tracking such things. "Yes, Sir," Benjamin says, wondering if he has put a foot wrong somehow. It is regulations . . . 

Hepburn seems thoughtful rather than offended. "He was the one whom you came across back in . . . April, was it?"

"Yes, Sir," Benjamin says, wondering what Hepburn has heard. "A Lance Corporal sent with a message, then. I was the officer who chanced on him after the attack."

Hepburn nods. "Well then, I shan't keep you," he says. "Why don't you return in two days' time, then? We'll have heard word back confirming your promotion and I'm sure you'll pick things up in no time."

After some minutes more of farewells and closing pleasantries, Benjamin finds himself exiting the building and winding up back in the streets. Incredible! His mind buzzes over the whole thing. Benjamin is certainly coming up through the ranks nicely.

But -- Will. Now that he isn't in the meeting with Hepburn, Benjamin checks his watch -- inexcusably rude to do so whilst in conversation -- and breathes out sharply. Will should be at Benjamin's room in just over an hour. 

Benjamin hurries back. It is bloody cold outside. He comes up the stairs and nods to Private Jensen and enters the room that has been appointed as his quarters during their time in Saint-Omer. 

It isn't a terrible room, really. There is a little fireplace -- he thinks this used to be someone's study -- and a shelf and a table and a cabinet of not-inferior quality. There is a real bed, too, though the mattress has certainly seen better days, made up with actual sheets and heaped in quilts. Standing in it now, he notes that his little room is draftier than he likes, and Benjamin feels an irrational dissatisfaction, a surge of overprotectiveness urging him to track down the bloody cracks to stop them up and -- it is _not worth his time._

Benjamin shakes himself sharply. He hasn't any idea what has brought _that_ urge on. As it stands, there is a fire going in the little fireplace, and it is far, far warmer than outside. Between that, the neat stack of firewood for Benjamin to keep it going for the next day or so, and the quilts, the room will do just fine.

His real pride, though, is the bath. Private Jensen has managed to ensure the -- landlady? -- will provide an actual hot bath in an actual tub that is larger than a dog's water dish. The tub is a small one, discolored and unearthed from storage -- God knows who has been hiding it, it looks to be metal of some kind -- but what matters is that it is there. Hot water is a luxury to the soldiers, even if they are orderlies, and it has been a dreadfully dirty business the past several months mucking their way through the mire of Passchendaele; Benjamin thinks that Will would rather appreciate it. 

Even now it is being filled by Private Jensen. As there isn't running water built into this former study-turned-bedroom, it is by necessity that water is hauled in from the kitchens downstairs. The tub stands half-full and nearer to the fire to help it keep its temperature. 

Benjamin finds himself grinding his teeth. There is still nearly thirty minutes before Will should arrive -- he may as well find something to do. 

So he pours himself a drink and rifles through his things for some Company business to tend to. He finds some incomplete requisition forms he had set aside for later and settles in to work through them as Private Jensen and the landlady continue to take turns ferrying water to fill the bath. 

When it is complete, Private Jensen gets Benjamin's attention to point out the kettle of water heating near the fire in case the water cools too quickly. "Thank you, Private," Benjamin says, and confirms the instructions for providing meals and so forth.

That finished, Benjamin finds his concentration broken again. Irritated, he realises he hasn't the patience for finishing the paperwork. Looking at what had been filed, Benjamin was forced to recall that -- well. The action in November -- it isn't that it has been particularly difficult. Passchendaele was worse, relatively speaking, in terms of discomfort and loss of life, but for whatever reason, the action in November was -- stressful. 

And now the emotion he sensed earlier in Headquarters comes creeping back in. Benjamin finds that he grieves the losses they took. (He also finds his drink is empty; absently, he gets up to pour one for himself and for Will.) Somehow, that desperate advance with no covering artillery, straight into a hail of machine-gun fire -- all for the sake of digging a new trench on slightly better ground -- is . . . Benjamin doesn't know what it calls up. It is something rather ugly. He really . . . he should probably not dwell-- 

"Captain?"

Benjamin starts. He didn't even -- he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he sees it is just Will. Finally.

"Sorry," Benjamin tells him, and downs the drink in one. "Sorry. Didn't hear you come in." 

Will has lost his initial hesitancy and is looking him over keenly. Benjamin feels uncomfortably out of the loop when Will seems to come to some conclusion from it and moves rather decisively to close the door. Benjamin is startled at his actions -- it is not like Will at all. For God's sake, last time the man couldn't bring himself to initiate anything from the guilt of being in a situation over which he had no control whatsoever. 

Will makes himself familiar with Benjamin's space, coming up close and taking the glass from him. He pours Benjamin a new drink and hands the glass back slowly. The heat of him is something that is rapidly coming to consume Benjamin's focus.

Will is taller than Benjamin. It has always been startling to Benjamin, just how great a presence Will has -- no matter how understated he presents himself, Will looms large in Benjamin's awareness. . . . Or maybe that's just being Benjamin's omega. Fuck if Benjamin knows. 

Anyway, right now, Will still manages to make himself seem -- smaller. Benjamin feels a flush of anger. It's a filthy lie, it is: Benjamin has seen him ram a Hun who was springing out to stab at Benjamin and bash the enemy's brains out with his rifle. There are few people more dangerous than Will in the company. To pretend otherwise does him a disservice of character and Benjamin does not like it. 

Will's lips on his are shockingly warm, and not just because Benjamin is now thoroughly wrong-footed at the man's initiative. But on the heels of this dissonance, the taste of him is surprisingly -- settling. Will licks his way expertly into Benjamin's mouth and Benjamin finds himself fisting one hand into Will's tunic, pulling him closer, chasing that sensation of clarity that spreads across his mind and stills his racing thoughts.

They break apart after -- some measure of time. Benjamin isn't keeping track. 

"You've not started peaking, even," Benjamin observes. Something is wrong. Will has warmed up to Benjamin, certainly, but he hadn't thought it enough that Will should be so forward at this point, not without the heat prompting him.

"No," Will agrees, staying close. His every indication is that he is perfectly content to stand here, mere inches of distance between them. "Maybe another hour or so -- but no."

Benjamin should be able to read him better. He isn't. "Why?" Benjamin settles for asking. He hopes Will doesn't move away -- Benjamin is becoming rather fixated on how close Will is.

Will leans in again. This kiss is slow, languorous; Benjamin's thoughts clear a little more with each hazy movement. He has both of his hands on Will when it ends and he can't seem to pull them away. 

"You're off early," Will murmurs, tilting his head forward so he rests it against Benjamin's. "All that action put you on edge?" 

Benjamin closes his eyes and does his best to breathe. "Likely," he admits, recognizing the signs of an early rut at last. The preoccupation -- the possessiveness -- even having the omega he has claimed at hand is only _just_ allowing him to pull his thoughts together. He's -- he's got to warn Will. "Damn. I'm not -- usually it's nothing more than -- I can get rough," he manages to get out. "If I do anything you don't want--" 

Will presses up against him, reclaiming Benjamin's attention. He smells amazing. Will is not quite in heat, not yet, but he is very close to it. "Is the bath for me?" he asks, one corner of his mouth quirking into that hidden smile of his. 

"I mean it," Benjamin says, struggling not to be distracted. "Will--"

"I think you're pacing me," Will interrupts him with, softly. He hesitates, but adds: "And you've -- done better by me than I've -- a right to expect."

There is so much wrong with that statement that Benjamin struggles to respond. He doesn't know where to _begin._

"Anyway, I -- trust you," Will continues, and he is uncomfortable now. He runs out of words and starts to fidget; close as they are, Benjamin can feel tension settling into his posture. 

They can discuss it later, then. "Would you like a bath?" Benjamin asks instead. He nods to the tub in front of the fire. "It is for you. I had one earlier, and after, I had them fill it up again for you." 

Will relaxes again. "I would," he says -- but he doesn't move away just yet. An odd expression flickers over his face. "Would you help me wash?"

Benjamin feels his mouth go dry as he parses out the oddness -- it was a look of wanting. Will rarely expresses any personal desires of his own, but this . . . "Of course," Benjamin replies, feeling his heart pick up. 

He frets about being rough. Will leans into Benjamin's hands, though, and allows Benjamin to help Will undress. Benjamin even manages to approximate Will's neat folding for the clothing once it is off of him. Not so well as Will, of course -- and he knows that Will is deliberately ignoring the poor job of it with the squint Will levels at the resulting heap of cloth -- but Benjamin resolves to concern himself about that later because Will stepping into the tub and hissing slightly at the hot water is far more important. 

"Is it warm enough?" Benjamin asks, hovering. He watches sharply as Will reclines slowly, too much of him to truly fit into the small tub; his knees stick out absurdly as he settles himself gingerly back against the enameled metal. 

"Didn't expect it to be warm at all," Will admits, a lovely flush curling over his collarbones and up his neck. His cheeks have more color than Benjamin thinks he has seen in them before and it is bloody intoxicating.

"As if I'd get you a cold one in December," Benjamin replies, half-hypnotized as the tension seeps out of Will and into the water. Benjamin has shucked his tunic and rolled up his sleeves without being aware of it, and now he takes up the space just behind Will, reaching around his omega to pick up both the washrag and the soap. 

Benjamin takes the time to try to order his thoughts. He isn't one of those wildly-uncontrolled alphas who rut and tend to cause ruin, but Benjamin feels the loss of his higher functions without even someone for whom he can care distasteful: without his wife, all of his ruts in the Army have been lacking. This one is nearly a month early and he feels all out of sorts.

Keeping his hands on Will seems to be the trick to staying -- here. The act of skimming soap and rag and sweeping away the grime of at least a week from Will's skin, leaving it a clear, blushing pink, is deeply satisfying; so satisfying, in fact, that Benjamin is having trouble finding the words with which to describe it. Maybe it is in how Benjamin cannot tend to his company of 200 men this way, not after Passchendaele and not after November. Even as a Major, he won't be able to ensure the men's wellbeing, cleaning what is dirtied and soothing away smaller wounds as he does with Will right now . . .

Benjamin abruptly comes back to awareness with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut over a hot, itchy sensation that he feels a headache brewing. He is aware of his fringe sticking to his skin from the humidity of the steam and Will's sweat; his forehead rests against the junction of Will's throat and his shoulder. Benjamin's shirt is soaked with how tightly he has wrapped himself around his omega, even in the (now-filthy) bath. 

"Ben?" Will asks, hushed. When Benjamin loosens his grip and mutters an apology, Will reaches back with one hand and turns as much as he can. He is concerned. 

Benjamin cups Will's head to his own and leans against him so that the two of them are looking at the fire. "They've promoted me," he says by way of explanation. "I'm the major, now."

Will is quiet. He seems to sense that Benjamin isn't entirely happy about it (which is a surprise to Benjamin, himself -- hadn't he just been delighted, initially?). 

Ruthlessly, Benjamin gets his emotions under control. This is not the time for thinking on that -- and there are more pleasant things to do, anyway. 

"You'll make a fine one," Will says finally, after a moment. His voice is pitching differently. His scent is changing, now, almost measurably so against the way his breathing becomes deeper and more rapid -- his heat is setting in just as quickly as Benjamin's rut did. Benjamin finds the place he marked his claim (twice) with his mouth and kisses it.

Will shivers deliciously and whines a little, soft. It does interesting things to Benjamin's body. 

"Bed, please," Will says. His eyes are dark in this light. 

"Yes," Benjamin agrees. There is violence and fear gnawing at his bones, but this, he thinks, may be exactly what he needs to quiet it. Something about Will settles him like nothing else can. "Yes," Benjamin repeats, appetite stirring. "I'd like that."

They abandon the bath. Benjamin takes great pleasure in thoroughly drying Will off, finding the time to trace the bones of him gently in entirely superfluous caresses. It is well worth the effort, though; by the time Benjamin considers the task completed, Will's eyes are bright with arousal and he kisses Benjamin all through helping him undress. It is utterly enthralling. When they fall into the bed together, they are too busy chasing the surface delights of skin and tongue to notice the initial chill of the sheets.

Benjamin finds that his skill in easing the breach has greatly improved. Somehow, this time, it is faster than ever. When they sink into each other, it is like coming home. It is sheer delight, and ease, and comfort; it is finding a rhythm at last and trusting it will be followed.

Benjamin is not the only one who feels it. Finally, he has proof that Will has chosen this of his own volition: there is none of the awkward maneuvering that was so present in August, none of the guilt-wrent reluctance. In fact, Benjamin does not even recall Will's unhappiness being a potential factor until much later, so uninhibited are they both. In no time at all they are locked more tightly than they've ever been and Benjamin finds he gasps at it, even though it should be familiar by now.

He rests his forehead on Will's shoulder. "How is it that I'm surprised every bloody time?" he gets out, faint from the absolute, all-encompassing _warmth_ and _pressure._

Will's response is to groan and rock against him, and Benjamin loses his senses for a moment in the mindless urge to grind in deeper. He finds himself mouthing at Will's throat while Will whimpers and stretches his head back, an invitation to mark -- an invitation that Benjamin accepts and pursues until the only thing Will is capable of doing is making those soft, breathy moans that are absolutely _maddening._

Even when they can move again, the closeness remains. Will does not get quietly still or become limply unresponsive; he pulls Benjamin in closer when Benjamin would ease away to give him space and sighs with something that Benjamin almost dares to hope is contentment. In the haze of the after, it is a lazy exploration of all the ways in which they can possibly twine themselves together. 

Their noses bump. Benjamin blinks awake, out of his doze. 

"Sorry," Will murmurs, and cups the side of his face in apology. He shifts a little more and Benjamin realises he is trying to inch in closer; Benjamin opts to curl his arm around Will's shoulders and help him.

Will kisses him. He moves slowly under the blankets, too, until his leg is hooked over Benjamin's hip and Benjamin feels the heat of him; close, and so, so tantalizing. 

"Again?" Benjamin pants when Will lets him breathe. 

"Please," Will purrs.

This time starts soft, but it does not stay that way. The more sexual aspect of the rut seizes Benjamin in the midst of it and encourages them both to greater effort -- Will's flushed rapture when Benjamin is driven to take charge and rolls on top of him suffuses Benjamin with a headiness he does not recall feeling before. 

When the frenzy subsides, Benjamin finds he is kissing Will breathlessly and he fits, oh, he fits so perfectly in him -- never has Benjamin felt so perfectly placed, so perfectly suited for anyone. This is where he is supposed to be. It is incredibly freeing to feel this and he revels in it.

Will rests, falling into sleep swiftly and silently: he literally trails off in the middle of a slurred sentence, nodding off where he has tucked himself under Benjamin's chin. Benjamin feathers a light touch to the pulse in Will's throat and listens to him breathe for a long while. He is utterly, dreamily content. 

Eventually the impulse of the rut drives him to extract himself without disturbing Will to go retrieve water and food. Will needs to eat.

He just barely makes it back, Will stirring even from this deep slumber in the few moments Benjamin is absent. Will wakes, blearily unhappy, but is quickly reassured as Benjamin pushes cold cheese and bread into his hands and coaxes him to eating. The food revives Will, somewhat, and he is soon hungry for other things -- things that Benjamin is all too willing to offer.

The night is very cold. In the bed, it is very warm. 

But the room is less so as the night deepens. In the early hours of the morning, after Will is satisfied twice more, Benjamin's needs to protect and care present themselves when he notices the fire has burned almost to ash. It must have more fuel or it will go out completely -- and while Benjamin knows how to keep a fire going, starting one is another issue entirely. And his instinct to protect in his natural rut is much more insistent than when roused by Will's heat -- calling someone in to lay out a new one properly is absolutely out of the question. 

"I need to feed the fire," he says gently to his drowsing omega. "It is getting very low." Benjamin is compelled to stroke Will's face, a gesture intended to soothe -- necessary, as the next thing he does is begin to disentangle himself. He should wait until Will is fully asleep, but -- the fire needs stoking as well.

As he suspected, this rouses Will fully. "No," he says, drowsiness leaving him the moment Benjamin begins to pull away. There is a sudden panic in him that Benjamin believes is even less rational than the normal confusion of a heat. "No, don't leave me, please--"

"Shhh, Will," Benjamin says, and kisses him. Maybe the taste of Benjamin will help, like Will's kiss helped Benjamin earlier. When they part, Will is nominally calmer, so Benjamin continues. "I am going to get up to fix the fire, Will. Then I'm coming back, all right?"

Will's breathing is uneven and, in the dim light, his eyes are wide and white; spooked. But he appears to track Benjamin and Benjamin waits patiently until Will finally nods, jerkily, and lets go of him.

He does his best to make it quick. The fire is nothing but a bed of coals; Benjamin stacks several pieces of wood into the fire, carefully timing it as necessary. He will admit, he only learnt this a few months ago and he feels uncomfortably strained trying not to smother the blasted thing entirely -- not when the alternative is leaving Will exposed for so long . . . but then flames are licking the larger pieces and he is reasonably assured of its longevity; and Will's every breath is edged with a whimper, and Benjamin can't possibly ignore him any longer.

Despite the stress, he keeps his voice as calm as he can manage. "Look," Benjamin says, coming back over to the bed. "See? I'm back. I promised you I'd come back."

"I see," Will says hoarsely, but he doesn't stop shaking until Benjamin slips back under the quilts and wraps him in a fierce embrace. The stiffness melts out of him only slowly.

The next several encounters are desperate things, full of a possessiveness that Benjamin would not normally be surprised by -- but it is Will who takes the lead, who demands greater attention and effort than Benjamin thought Will desired at all. And every time Benjamin slips away from Will's side, his return is marked by a renewed energy in Will -- a renewed hunger for Benjamin to fit himself into those tender places and align himself perfectly until they are both groaning from it and the delirium of delight. Benjamin is not ashamed to later admit that he quite loses track of everything that whole day save for how Will tastes and sounds and feels.

Just as in April and August, Benjamin is awake when the last of the heat and the rut fade and leave them both as themselves again. He stays lying next to Will and watches him sleep as the early morning hours pass, deeply contented; and then he slips out. He builds up the fire with the last of the wood and retrieves the supper that was left for them hours ago. 

He is eating quietly at the table and embracing the chill of the room on his bare skin when Will emerges from beneath the blankets and pads silently over to join him. Instead of sitting, though, Will reaches out and wraps his arms around Benjamin. He drapes himself over Benjamin for a moment, taking this moment of contact for himself instead of waiting for it. 

Benjamin, surprised, quickly turns to savouring it. He leans back into Will's hold instead of questioning why.

"Thank you," Will whispers, finally. There's a soft pressure at the top of Benjamin's head; Will's lips, a kiss on Benjamin's crown. "I don't think I regret what's happened since, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some amazing people, without whom this fic would still be mired in hell: @writeyourownstory, @Xena1016, @MagicalTear. All three of you are heartbreakingly lovely, absolutely gorgeous, and also wickedly smart. Thanks, babes <3 In addition, thank you to all the wonderful individuals in the Officers' Club and the Longfic Lads, who each and every day bring light into my world! Gosh, I love you all <3 <3 <3
> 
>  ~~Unsure if I'm going to write more in this 'verse or not! I have pretty much the whole thing planned out, but . . . hmmmm. It's a hell of a lot of angst, even if the sex is divine!~~ ~~Never mind. I reconsidered! There will be a fourth chapter at the least :)~~ Never never mind -- there will be a one-shot sequel at _some point._
> 
> In the meantime -- if you've read _between the crosses_ and are thinking "but Ealasaid! It's October -- this is a perfect time for ghosts!" well . . . you would be correct ;) (hint hint, wink wink, stay sharp!) If you have NOT read _[between the crosses](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289)_ and are thinking "what? Ghosts? That IS perfect for Halloween!" -- I recommend you check it out!


	4. December, 1917 - February, 1918 (Will)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated -- at one point in this chapter, Schofield's reflection on his situation has a distinct flavor of victim-blaming.

"Pick a man. Bring your kit," Will hears; and, even through the beguiling lethargy of pre-heat, he knows it means trouble. 

Still, Will finds that doesn't matter as he looks up to the open expectation on Blake's face. Will can't tell if it is just affection or something more that sweeps through him as Blake holds out his hand and helps Will up with a smile; all Will knows is that it is more than Will has felt in a long, long time. He is starved for it.

Blake's hand is warm and lingers fractionally before it drops away. Will settles his kit and follows.

It is on the tip of his tongue to bring it up -- to ask -- as they follow Sanders. His heat is coming up and Blake is already picking up on it, whether Blake knows it or not -- it's best to sort these things out before it gets too far. But Will says nothing, just listens as Blake jokes about the priesthood . . .

. . . Why are they meeting the general? Will's skin crawls. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. "You have a brother in the 2nd Devons," the general says to Blake. "I'd like to keep him that way." --And Will knows what that means -- those words, that tone. 

He feels frozen. Blake asks questions but Will can't move. He can't go out -- he'll be in heat by tomorrow, if not tonight. It is too dangerous. Will could claim Blake was his alpha for this, too, get him out of it--

\--"Please, just wait until it's dark," Will begs, praying _wait until I start peaking and get distracted by that_ \-- but Blake would hate Will if he did that, if his brother died -- but Will doesn't want to see Blake die (sickening swoop in his belly, he wants to vomit)--

\--Blake is dying. He is dying in Will's arms and there is not a damn thing Will can do. Grief weighs him down and makes it hard to breathe -- deep down, Will knows he has done this before. There is no way out. 

"Tell me you know the way," Blake demands, angry in a way Will doesn't remember him ever being.

"I'm not leaving you," Will says. He refuses to accept this. He can't handle this grief and loneliness anymore, he can't carry it by himself.

"He'll die!" Blake's voice cracks. "He'll die, Will, please!"

"No," Will says, frantic. He looks around as though help will appear. If he doesn't let go, Blake won't die, Will won't be alone--

\--a hand cups his face, redirecting him to Blake. But it isn't Blake, it's Ben -- Ben looking at him with a terrible grief as his face gets whiter and whiter. He wipes the wet from Will's eye with his thumb and tries to say something, but it is lost in the roar of blood as Will's whole world crashes to a halt with the horror of it, his heart stuttering in his chest and all the wind driven from him as though struck by a great blow--

\--Will starts awake with a gasp. 

Light -- there is light, warm and comforting instead of harsh and pale. He is in a cot with a warm weight on him -- a quilt. Not at the farmhouse; not feeling his warmth sink into cooling flesh or frozen ground. 

Nightmares, again. Will can't remember how many times he has lashed out at someone trying to wake him, still caught in the memory of some desperate struggle; this one, at least, only leaves him with a profound sense of loss.

Will wipes his face with his sleeve and does his best to regulate his breathing back to normal. Sickening terror lingers -- half of that dream was a memory, what if _all_ of it was memory? -- even though Will knows he is awake and knows he would remember Ben dying. He would have simply got out of the trench and walked into a machine-gun's fire if Ben were dead.

A shadow falls across Will -- either the fire is larger than it should be, or the lamp is lit. Will feels a heady relief as Ben comes into his field of view. It is so strong it is all Will can do to lean into the hand Ben rests lightly on his shoulder. Thank God -- it was indeed just a dream.

"Are you all right there, Will?" Ben asks softly, rather as though Will was a-- a-- well, not merely a batman. 

The events of the last week come back to Will in a rush at this display of gentleness. Their relief to Saint-Omer -- Richards's promotion -- Will's last heat, ended naught four days ago. (Might be five, now, actually.) 

Will cannot deny the comfort in the touch. He does not want to, either, not after that dream. So, though he is still uneasy about how close they have gotten in the last week, he puts his hand on top of Ben's and says, "Just a dream. I'm all right."

Richards's face is in shadow, but Will thinks he sees the man's expression ease anyway at Will's touch. "Good," he says. 

"What're you doing up?" Will asks. It is the lamp that is on; the fire is still banked for the night. "D'you need some tea?" He rubs his eyes and starts to sit up, feeling the tiredness he still has not managed to relieve. 

"No, no," Richards says hastily, grip tightening. "Don't bother on my account. I haven't gone to bed, yet, is all."

Will frowns at that. Richards needs sleep more than Will at this point -- he won't be getting any once they are back on the line. "Has something come up?"

Richards -- Ben -- sighs. "No," he says. "I just can't shake the feeling we're not still at the front." 

"Join me, then," Will offers before he thinks it through. 

Ben is startled by that, in the same way he was startled by Will the evening of the 5th. But Will does not have time to regret his offer. Though Ben is clearly tempted by the idea, he shakes his head. 

"No, you go back to sleep if you can," he says instead. "There are some things yet I should finish anyway."

It is on the tip of Will's tongue to insist -- but he keeps silent, the conflict of second thoughts stilling it. Ben looks like he needs rest and the comfort of closeness, but it really isn't Will's place to say so -- and Will ought not to, anyway. They have already set out the limits for their relationship and sharing a bed isn't within them. 

(--Though remembering how it felt to feel his own heat drain away -- a warm body would do a lot to keep those particular memories at bay . . .)

But Will says nothing and nods. Ben gives him a bit of a squeeze and moves away.

Will does not dream again that night, not that he remembers, but that doesn't mean he sleeps well. Judging from how frequently he hears the other bed rustle when Will comes out of his own uneasy sleep, Ben doesn't, either.

~ * ~

Will made his peace with the forced closeness of the intimacy required to sate his body's demands sometime after his first heat in the Army. A heat without adequate care is crippling enough at home; Will suffered through enough of that before he was married to know how draining, how disruptive it can be. 

In these circumstances, it would be nothing short of catastrophe. If it didn't drive him mad, peaking in such a high-stress environment without another to ease the strain, it is entirely possible he would die -- and though there were times Will had wished he could test those limits, it ultimately wasn't worth tormenting an entire section or platoon of fellow soldiers. There are too many who are alphas that would suffer along with him in the denial, even if he would be permitted to seclude himself in a waystation by himself. 

(--and they don't deserve to be tested beyond what they can endure. Will knows it is, somehow, God's will that he is like this; but he cannot help but feel that he does not deserve the expectation that his own autonomy over his body be sacrificed to appease the instincts of his fellows, almost all of whom would regard their own instinctual passion after the fact as little better than monstrosity.)

(Will likes to think that, were the dynamics reversed, he would find it within himself to refrain from forcing himself on another. Knowing how overwhelming instincts can be from his own experiences as an omega, he does not think he would manage.)

\--anyway. 

Being claimed is . . . different. Henry, and Jemmy, and Jake -- all of them -- they helped him, and they knew what it cost him to be in this position. Though Henry (and then Jake), in particular, did press for a while (albeit for different reasons), they ultimately respected that Will did not want that sort of relationship outside of what his body demanded. 

Ben, too, has respected that Will does not want a relationship outside of what their bodies demand. He has behaved to the best of his ability within the constraints of their situation; he has abided by their agreement and not pressed Will for more. Will may still have some lingering resentment towards Ben for claiming him in the first place, but -- Will has been out here too long to not understand the limitations Ben presumed he was operating under, and Will knows all too well what an alpha can and cannot let pass. 

(--And Ben's acknowledgement that he would have perhaps chosen differently . . .

It isn't as though Will wants to be crippled. The loss of his left hand would hardly disable an accountant, not as it would a tradesman; it isn't the hardship one would expect for him as it would be for others. Still, the acknowledgement that Will's thoughts aren't -- that they aren't singular, aren't misplaced, aren't _invalid;_ knowing that Ben understands what his actions have cost Will -- it means a great deal.)

What most merits thought in Will's mind is the claim that exists now between himself and Ben. Will has never felt this instinctive rein on himself before now. Not in this way. It is one thing to curb oneself to the demands of one's conscience; it is another to conform to what one's body demands. Will's body demands Ben.

\--Not sexually, not outside of his heat, thank God. No; it is just that being close physically -- in the same room, preferably -- does a lot to ease the nerves that seem to have plagued Will for months. Any time Ben touches him, even in passing, it is -- easier to breathe, somehow. (In retrospect, Will hasn't the slightest idea how he made it through the spring and summer, and not just because he barely remembers it. The month waiting for the transfer to go through after his second time with Ben was truly horrendous.)

In this respect, the claim isn't -- it isn't totally what Will had feared. In fact, now that Will is past the dull grind of simply putting one foot in front of another, he can admit that this is not unwelcome, either. It is astounding how much difference the certainty of the claim makes. There's an odd surety in the closeness of Ben, acting as Will's alpha, that lends him -- Will isn't sure what to call it. A sort of confidence? A confidence that lends him strength often, allowing him to extend himself more -- such as in writing more regularly to his wife.

Well . . . writing to tell her the truth, anyway.

It takes literally all the courage Will possesses, but in the second week of December -- the day after that awful nightmare, actually -- he finally sets down in a letter what he should have written to her in August.

_December 13th, 1917_

_My dearest Ellie,_

_I am sending this separately as it is something I think you will wish to have addressed as such._

_You must pardon my lack of dissembling; I cannot write this in any way that would soften it. I have entered into a claim with an alpha._

_I ought to have written before now. The initial situation occurred in April. It was not my choice at the time, nor would the man who saw to me have gone to such effort had he known the whole of it. Chance set us in each other's path a second time and, though I had the opportunity to rectify my situation, I ultimately did not. --The full circumstances are not something that can be explored easily in a letter, but as you are aware, I transferred to a new unit in September; it was with my knowledge and acceptance._

_Nevertheless, I find I am still yours. I want nothing more than to be home with you. This claim isn't something that has replaced my love for you and I regret that I could not seek your counsel before now._

_Your loving husband,_

_Will_

It takes him two attempts before he has the letter worded the way he wants it; then Will copies it cleanly. It's a lot of paper, but this is worth it. He owed her the truth before now. It is a mark of his shame that he could not bring himself to take responsibility.

When Will seals the envelope and prints the address on the outside, he feels -- an immeasurable _something._ Something like terror -- she will be deeply, deeply wounded by this, and of the two of them, she has the fiercer temper -- but something like relief, too; finally, this is coming to light to whom it matters the most.

Sitting here, staring at the letter, Will is swept with a sudden longing for home. He wants Cookham, just north of Sussex, quiet and familiar. He wants his daughters, too young to know anything but the innocence of childhood; his wife, excited to wrest him into argument (and then the bed); his parents, to ground him where he is rooted. He wants normality, stability, and to not know what it means to feel blood running down one's skin.

In the meantime, Will carefully, painstakingly packs these feelings away. It is best not to dwell on them until he receives a response.

~ * ~

They are sent back to the line on Christmas day. They're in Passchendaele, still. Fortunately -- or unfortunately, depending -- the weather has been horribly cold and, in the three weeks they've been off the line, the ground has frozen over. The mud will be hell when it starts to warm up and everything thaws, but for now it is tolerable.

Richards has settled into the position of Major with aplomb. He is all effortless charm and genial wit; his even temper makes him an officer with whom all of the captains and adjutants are comfortable. 

As his batman, Will has to adjust to Richards's differing scope of responsibilities and be prepared to assist for all of them. Primarily, Richards is now expected to attend more meetings or appointments that require him to appear more formally presented (even out here on the line!), so Will gets to work chatting with the other men and picks up some new tricks for lifting mud and worse out of fabric. Will also learns the ins and outs of arranging appropriate transportation -- which is to say, he learns who manages the motorcars and the requests to use them. At the very least, Will feels no qualms managing Richards's expenses; he is oddly pleased to make some actual use of his skills in bookkeeping, finally. In short, the transition to being part of Headquarters staff is not difficult in the slightest. 

As far as Will can see, the greatest advantage to this all is that he is hardly expected to do any duty on the line anymore. Oh, he still has his rifle and his other gear, but Will is expected to go where Richards goes -- and Richards, as the Major, goes where Hepburn says. 

Even when Richards is sent to observe or inspect anything within the battalion's disposition, though, he insists that Will stay behind. "I won't need much attending in C Company that they can't manage," Richards says wryly when Will objects the first time, and goes on to point out that he would rather have tea waiting for him when he gets back.

"We're billeted in Headquarters," Will replies a little more sharply than is wise, suspecting that Richards is trying to keep him from harm's way. "There's a cook on staff who keeps a pot ready."

Richards looks like he is about to dismiss Will's words out of hand, but he pauses and looks at Will frankly. Will sees plainly that Richards _is_ trying to shelter Will, at least a little -- and sees when Richards realises that Will won't let that happen. It has nothing to do with being Richards's omega: if Will is supposed to be his batman, Will is bloody well going to be his batman.

Richards drops the light tone. "I'll be out for an hour," he says bluntly. "I'd rather you waited here, because there's hardly any trouble that can happen -- and I honestly cannot think of what use it would be to take you. How about you come with me any time I'm out for longer than that?"

Will can see the sense in it. C Company is on the line, too; the only transport that needs managing is finding a lorry that is headed in that direction if Richards were in a hurry. Otherwise, it is barely a mile away.

"Fine," he says, grudgingly, and bites his tongue on what he'd _like_ to say. Will knows how easily an unexpected bombardment or surprise gas attack or hidden sniper can end a life. --But Will isn't suffering from the irrationality of heat and he can control that terror. 

(For the most part. Will does _fine,_ he is _not_ some fearful omega incapable of acting without the oversight of her alpha -- but the first few times Richards is off on these little excursions, Ben deems it necessary to take Will aside upon his return and find some modicum of privacy. After several such of these small inspections, though, where Ben returns safely, it becomes easier and easier to manage, and the length of time it takes for Will's anxieties to ease shrinks proportionally.)

As a result, Will finds that, shortly, he has a great deal of time to himself after a while. There is only so much he can mend or so many accounts to balance, after all. 

Will turns to writing, again. --Not like he used to, none of the poetry that flew so readily to him in the margins of the accounts he kept and books he balanced; but he finds he is able to pen frequent letters, again. To his wife, particularly, to whom his thoughts turn to more and more. 

Most, Will keeps. They are very private, some of them, and he would abhor to have them read by any of the officers whom he knows are tasked with censorship. But he does send a few, and to those he never gets a response. 

Will is not totally at peace with this, but then, he hasn't received any letters from Ellie at all since the one he wrote in December. He lingers in an odd limbo: with no condemnation, he doesn't have to deplore himself; but the longer the span of time grows, the greater he dreads the response.

So Will quietly just . . . continues to write. And send, or not. --It isn't as though he hasn't done something like that himself.

~ * ~

Of late, Will has noticed, it is not a strain just to keep moving. Of late, food hasn't been a chore to consume; discerning and anticipating others' expectations has not been a struggle; and he has even been able to find it within himself to make appropriate small talk with the other men he works with, attending the officers in Headquarters.

Will has grown used to his new responsibilities and the flow of life around Battalion Headquarters, and by the time they are off the line and back in Wizernes at the end of January, there is little that is unknown to him about the mysteries of the Brass Hats. Still, there is one thing that surprises him: in the 2nd Devonshire, particularly in Battalion Headquarters, there are no other omega orderlies -- none whatsoever. 

It takes Will an embarrassingly long time to determine this. One's presentation isn't something one frequently discloses, and outside of heat and rut, it is rare to be able to tell by scent alone. As it stands, Will is so accustomed to the other men being predominantly alphas that he supposes he never really separated out what cued another's presentation. It is only when the newest orderly, Mayhew, nervously asks Will and two others whether or not it was true that male omegas did exist -- and whether beta officer like Hepburn could force Mayhew to claim one -- that Will realises that he is perhaps rarer here than he suspected. In the resulting frank conversation between the other two batmen, Will discovers, too, that with the exception of the new Mayhew, all the batmen are betas.

This is truly astounding to Will. In his experience, the omega soldiers have slowly been winnowed out of the regular rank-and-file: gradually shifted -- _claimed_ \-- by officers, laterally transferred into the positions most closely subordinate to said officers. It is what Will had expected would happen to him back in April, or May.

Once he knows this, Will starts paying strict attention. With some judicious snooping, he determines that not only is Will the only omega in Headquarters, Richards is the only other _alpha._ Everyone else -- apart from the Captains and Lieutenants of the companies, who come and go as requested by Hepburn -- is a beta, including Hepburn. Ben and Will are the odd ones out.

"Is there a reason for it?" Will ventures to ask Ben one evening, very, very late. He is dozing in spite of himself and wishes he had a fire to tend, or something, but this room has no fireplace. It is colder, too.

Right now, Will also wishes Ben would finish what he is doing and consent to turn in for the night; neither of them have been getting very much rest at all the past week, not with how frequently they are interrupted. If Will makes his tiredness plain, Ben will excuse him to sleep, but Will suspects that this just means Ben stays up even later doing his business.

"Reason for what?" Ben asks absently, hardly looking up.

"We're the only claimed pair in the staff here," Will says, and decides to make more tea. If this keeps up he will just have to pull out the mending he has been meaning to do. "Everyone else is a beta."

Ben pauses for a moment. "I didn't notice," he says, sounding startled. "I suppose we are."

"So you don't know the reason?" Will asks, a little disappointed. "Mayhew was commenting on it, but he had no idea why it was."

"Mayhew . . . ?"

"Private Jacob Mayhew. One of the general orderlies. --A new one."

"Ah. --Well no, I haven't any idea," Ben says slowly, sitting back in his chair. At the very least, the topic has distracted him -- he seems just as interested as Will is. He puts down his pen and stretches, yawning, then crosses his arms and contemplates the middle distance for a moment.

Will takes his mug while he is thus distracted ("Tea?" "Yes, thanks") and slips out of the room. Ben has that look that tells Will he's winkling out some distant tidbit from his memory and trying to fit it to this topic.

Tea doesn't take very long; the cook points out the half-full kettle that has just come to a boil and Will sets tea to steep in a plain tin pot. He rinses the mug out and then brings both back to their room, ghosting through the quiet Headquarters and attracting none of the attention of the adjutant officers who are still grimacing over the more bureaucratic aspects of running a battalion. Being off the line just means they work harder -- they have more resources and peace at hand with which to file everything appropriately and, as a result, less leeway.

When he gets back, Ben is clearly still mulling it over. He is looking out the window at the darkened street below, a glass of something in his hand. The sound of the door closing has him turning and studying Will with a sudden intensity: a look that takes in Will's appearance from top to toe.

It isn't like him -- Ben is usually a lot subtler when he is trying to gauge Will's state. Will raises his eyebrows in a silent query, hoisting the teapot and mugs for his appraisal. 

Ben's eyes crinkle. He looks like he wants to smile but is too mindful of it. A shame; he has a nice one.

"Pour that in here, then," Will says, indicating the glass Ben holds already. Obligingly, the other man tips the -- it smells like whiskey -- into both of the mugs, though Will hadn't meant that. Will pours them both tea on top of it anyway. Ben sighs with satisfaction at the aroma and tests the heat with a cautious sip; then he gulps headlong, despite the near scald. 

Will tries to keep from shuddering. It seems to him that Ben is always taking such risks -- always getting a little too close for comfort.

"I bet it's Mackenzie," Ben says, fortified, just as Will tests his own. "You wouldn't know. --Or I suppose you would? One of his standing orders was that, should there be an omega from another battalion peaking, the officer in charge was the one who came across them in the first place."

Will's tea shoots right out his nose. He coughs, horribly blindsided, and covers it as best he can with his arm. "Sorry," he says, flatly astonished, "sorry -- I beg your pardon?"

Ben opens his mouth and -- hesitates. He looks into his mug, embarrassed. "Your question, about why we're the only ones?" he reminds Will. "I think -- well, it brought to mind that directive, anyway. I was wondering if there was a connection."

"Oh," Will says, nonplussed. He doesn't have anything else to offer. After an awkward moment where Ben is clearly expecting him to comment, Will sips his tea to cover his lapse and asks, hastily, "Er -- would it have been different otherwise?"

Ben shrugs. "I think he would normally be the ranking officer in charge of lone omegas from other battalions," he says. "Or at least, that's my understanding of the Army's current standing order. I haven't any idea why he would--"

Ben's pause goes on long enough that Will stops staring into his mug with the awkwardness and looks at him again. Ben isn't watching Will; he appears to have been distracted entirely. He looks as though whatever has occurred to him is deeply abhorrent and is struggling to control his reaction. And -- Will catches a twang of _alpha_ rolling off of him. It is something that has made Ben upset enough to bring out those instincts.

"What?" Will asks, sharper than he intends.

Ben is recalled to Will's presence and glances at him, startled. His mouth tightens and he looks away. "Nothing," he says shortly. "Just sentiment. I rather dislike the thought that" --and he pauses again, softening a little, "--I find I don't care to think about how you were at the mercy of such little consideration." 

Will stares at him. Ben avoids his gaze and downs the rest of his mug. 

"Thank you for the tea, Will," he says briskly (if a tad hoarse -- it was probably _still too hot),_ and sets the cup on the table to gesture at the paperwork. "I'll finish the rest of this tomorrow."

Ben turns in shortly after that. He does not sleep well that night, either.

~ * ~

"Will," Ben asks him two days later. "When was the last time you went home on leave?"

This is how Will finds himself abruptly taking time at the beginning of February. Ben insists on pushing the paperwork through immediately and secures Will a full two weeks; Will hardly has time to protest that they are about to go back to the line before he finds himself on a ship, heading across the Channel.

~ * ~

When Will gets home, he is met by Ellie at the train station. She doesn't have their children with her. When she sees him, she struggles for a moment with some emotion he cannot place, but then she is in his arms and holding him fiercely. For a moment, her shoulders shake.

She pulls away but a moment later. She dredges up a smile from somewhere. "Your mother's minding the children," she says, voice trembling oddly. "Come on; we've dinner to get to."

Ellie is angry with him, that much is clear. It's in how shortly she speaks to him, the way her sentences are clipped, all the way home; it's the badly-hidden glare that she does her best to mask when they are home and his parents welcome him. Will doesn't blame her in the slightest. 

Seeing her like this, there is an odd duality to what he feels. On the one hand, he has a sort of vicious satisfaction that someone is at last acknowledging his failures and holding him accountable as opposed to trying to excuse them. On the other, she is his wife. They have known each other for a long time and he knows how badly she is hurting from this. Instead of his usual guilt, though, he just -- feels a deep sadness at the whole situation.

And then, of course, there is the fact that she is possibly the most beautiful woman in the world. 

\--Well, Will is biased, doubtless, but he still privately holds that even after bearing two children and raising them for two years with only his parents for help, the faint lines that touch the corners of her eyes only serve to make them shine all the brighter. Her perfectly-shaped lips are still chapped from her endearing habit of gnawing on them when she thinks. She continues to march through life, his wife, her back straight and head unbowed; and he would never want her to feel obligated to lower her gaze, because, of all the people who know his secret, Ellie is the one who never treated him the lesser for it. Will likes it how she never once has done less than look him straight in the eye and challenge him as though he were her equal.

God, though -- how much he _wants_ her. Even with the hostility she is leveling at him, Will doesn't care: since the moment he lays eyes on her he wants very, very much to take her to their bedroom and reacquaint himself with the landscape of her body and the sounds she makes when he teases her to her finish. 

\--And Will is startled, too, by how _intensely_ he desires his wife. From that first embrace on the platform, he is acutely aware, suddenly, of a thousand other times she fit in his arms. Just the smell of her when he manages to sidle close (before she notices enough to move away) is driving him mad. The last time Will was on leave, he could hardly stand to be around anyone and struggled to manage the comfort of their mattress or the closeness of her embrace; now, he wants to bury himself in her and never come out. It is a struggle to act normally and not just stare at her like a fool.

(Will had feared that the claim would somehow interfere with his love for Ellie -- and even though he hasn't felt drawn to Ben sexually at all, every instance where Will found himself craving Ben's touch or scent or presence seemed to point to that. It wasn't as though Will felt those urges for Ellie, after all. The fact that he feels this hunger for her fills him with a seemingly-limitless sense of elation; relief that an anticipated, terrible something turned out to only be a phantasm.)

Supper is supper, and something he tastes. It is plain, but it has the additional flavour of being home-made; and watching his daughters as they eat quietly (or not) while his father and mother and Ellie all talk makes it all the better. And after . . .

Ellie is still angry with him when they retire to the bedroom. This does not stop her from melting into his hands when he catches her and pulls her close and finally, _finally_ sets his lips to hers, nor does it stop her from yanking impatiently at his clothes while he fumbles with the catches of her skirts and battles with the tricky undergarments. Ellie is angry, yes, but she wants, too, and they tumble into the bed with an embarrassing crunch of springs to which neither of them pay any heed because then Will is sinking into her with a gasp as she cries out; and he is hard and aching and she is hot and slippery; and she engulfs him and claws him in closer and doesn't let him go.

"God, I've missed you," he whispers fervently to her later.

She traces his face, the lines and shadows and bones. He sees when she relents, between one blink and another, and her expression softens. 

"I know," she says back, just as quietly. "I've missed you, too."

In the morning, Ellie regains some of her stiffness, though. Will comes to realise that his mother and father both know about his circumstances after his mother manages to wrangle him quietly into frank talk over tea (horrifically embarrassing for both of them) and his father, unprompted, lectures him soundly (but vaguely, in true English fashion), talking about honour due to one's family; Will surmises this plays no little part in Ellie's distance. It is clear Will needs to make amends in some way more to Ellie, preferably publicly, but he hasn't any idea how to do so without declaring that he will break the claim and then following through on that promise. Even the thought of such a thing has him panicking in the middle of the kitchen, though, gasping into the counter and trying not to be sick whilst his father's disapproval cracks into a fearful remorse. 

The second evening, once Will is feeling more recovered, is just as dizzyingly preoccupying as the first. When Ellie comes to Will in the bedroom it is like when they were first married, after the initial awkwardness that was fumbling in the dark and blushingly attempting to follow vague advice given in whispers from friends -- after they disregarded it and asked each other instead and learned. The hunger Will feels is deliciously reminiscent of those headier, happier days, especially as Ellie opens up to him like a book, a flower, a hand.

After, they lie awake, more confident in their standing with each other. Ellie asks him about what he has never written in his letters -- here in the privacy of their bedroom, Will does not need to keep up pretenses. There is much he cannot bring himself to talk about, but he does tell her a little of what the Front is like.

It is the third evening that she broaches the subject the both of them have left, thus far, untouched. She asks about April. "You told me a little in your letter," she says, an odd weight to her words. Will thinks she has been waiting to ask this question for a very long time. "But what happened?"

At the mention of April, Will has gone carefully, quietly still. He doesn't intend to, but he does, and that, he thinks, tells her more than he would have liked. Than he wants to speak about.

When he remains silent, Ellie sits up in the curl of his arm and looks down at him. She cups his face, though, with one hand as she meets his eyes -- and then it isn't an inquiry. It is just Ellie without her fire, but with all of her fear, and with all of her love.

Will has to swallow before he can speak. "Turn out the light, first," he says softly. And she does.

In the dark, with just the two of them -- and Will can't hold her. Not while he talks about this.

Not while he talks about Tom -- Tom's bullheadedness, his determination, his kindness, his friendship. Not while he talks about the mission -- being sent through hell to deliver a message, the weight of 1600 men's souls on his back. Not while he talks about being claimed -- about delirious dreams of a Medical Officer, a reluctant Lieutenant, and a body that gave in while his mind screamed for it not to.

Will reaches a level of detachment as he goes through it, enough to talk dispassionately about most of it; but sometimes it doesn't go as smoothly. "I tried to kill him, you know," he says near the end, wonderingly. Will feels the laughter bubbling out of his lungs and wants, strangely, to weep. "And not a day after I strangled someone else. It was just as desperate. I hated-- I _hated--"_

But Will can't bring himself to finish the sentence. His throat is all stopped up.

"Shhh, Will," Ellie says, choked. She touches him; he flinches. "Shhh," she repeats, soothingly. No matter how she tries, though, the most he can bring himself to do is to hold her hand as they lie next to each other.

Will doesn't remember the rest of the night. But, when he wakes up in the morning, he feels a little lighter; and Ellie greets him quietly at breakfast and touches him softly, and shows in a myriad of other small ways that he is mostly forgiven.

From there, the restraint is gone. Each day Will gets up and helps his family around the shop, doing whatever needs to be done; and each evening, he and Ellie whisper to each other late into the night, pausing every so often to relearn the familiarity of knowing each other. It is quiet and indulgent and, for the time being, the whole world is on pause and it is just them. Will does his best to affirm his love for her; he swears his devotion to her over and over, in every way that a husband should a wife in private. 

On the fifth night, she asks about the claim. What it is like -- how does it help. Will is able to answer these easier questions and, unprompted, tells her what she really wants to know: that he broke his promise to her because before the claim, he was drowning. (Will knows in his bones -- he's not sure how, but he _knows_ \-- had he not run into Ben in August, Will would be dead. By his own hand if not circumstance. He couldn't have gone on the way it was.) He forbears telling her this, though -- Will just tells her that he cannot bear to have another stranger take his heat, cannot bear the thought of learning someone only for them to die. More lightly, he adds that this one hasn't died on him yet, at least. --Which doesn't seem to make Ellie feel any better, but at least she doesn't disbelieve him.

It is the night before his last that she finally asks him about Richards.

"Tell me why, then," she asks him, late.

Will is still a bit dazed. He has been deliriously avowing his adoration of her, trying to memorize everything -- the way she moves, the way she sounds, the way she fits in his hands -- and he's still rather caught up in the way her hair falls in loose swirls all the way down to her breasts.

"Why what?" he asks, tracing one lock with his finger.

She catches his hand and holds it still so that he looks at her. "Why did you choose Richards, after what he did?" she asks him, eyes on his. "Why are you in his Company, now?"

"Battalion," Will corrects, automatically, and then feels wrong-footed. "He's not a Captain anymore."

"But why him?" Ellie asks directly, gaze unswerving. Will looks away. 

When Will recollects the scene in April now, what he most remembers is Ben's expression. Will had floundered back to awareness to find himself taking his pleasure from a man he vaguely recollected with no idea how Will had wound up in that position. All at once, Will felt the weight of the claim; and then Will was furious and sick with terror and guilt, both. The sheer rage that possessed him at that moment was uncontrollable.

When Will's hands tightened around the Lieutenant's neck, it seemed to Will that the man's face had gone from one of pleasure to fear. After several months with Ben, though, Will now recognises that he'd misread it. Ben's look of awe had shifted briefly to surprise before it became fearful resignation; and he hadn't fought Will, not at all. He would have let Will kill him.

Will still doesn't know how he refrained from killing Richards that day. Will had done it before not 18 hours earlier and in even worse shape, then. Perhaps it was Ben's acceptance which had signalled to Will that -- that maybe -- well, Will doesn't know. 

"He's a good man," Will says finally. "He -- was doing what he thought was the best thing, at the time. And then he did his best to ensure that he didn't make that mistake again."

Ellie is trembling, finely. "Doesn't he know what he's cost you?" she asks, voice bladed and sharp.

"Yes," Will says quietly, and rests his hand on her arm. Will remembers the dugout in November. "He knows. He's been making amends ever since."

Ellie looks away. Will is gifted with a moment of insight; there is jealousy in her, bone-deep and bitter.

"Hey there," he says softly, and pulls her in closer. She doesn't help him at all; she makes him drag her there. "Hey. You don't need to worry about him. No matter how much he's made up for it, he isn't the one I want. I want you, Ellie."  
  
"Do you?" she asks, raw. There is fire in her eyes. "Do you?"

"Yes," Will says, feeling it catch and ignite in himself. "I want you."

"Show me," she whispers against his lips. He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout-out to bexinthesky, mocat, and cadastre, all of whom left lovely reviews on the last chapter! Mocat and cadastre, in particular -- your questions prompted a LOT of thought on my part and made me realise there was still more story to tell. This and the upcoming chapters owe a lot to you <3
> 
> Thank you also to writeyourownstory -- babe, you make my each and every day _so much better._ Thank you <3 <3 <3
> 
> There will be probably twoish more chapters in this, I think. I have an idea of several places where this story can end; tentatively, we'll get through . . . oh, at least one more of Will's heats. --But we'll just have to see how far we get!


	5. December, 1917 - February, 1918 (Benjamin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Original A/N, Jan. 1, 2021: --probably going to come back and pick through this later for sure. This chapter fought me _so flippin' much!_ Anyway, I'm yeeting it here bc I am sick of it.~~
> 
> **Update, Feb. 11, 2021: I knew I'd come back here and pick at it! In this case, I added 1650 words at the end of the chapter. It is the section that begins with "On his last full day at home . . ."** I recommend rereading the chapter from the start, but if you have read it just recently starting at that section should be all right :)

_October 1, 1917_

_My dear husband,_

_[. . .]_

_. . . Now that the bulk of my news has been recounted, I turn to a subject dear to my heart, though I hate to press you on it: I miss you, darling. It has been several months since your last leave. You are entitled to leave every three months or so and, while I know September had its own challenges, I rather expected you would take some time not too long after it. When will you come home, Benjamin?_

_Sincerely,_

_Lydia_

~ * ~

_November 18, 1917_

_Benjamin,_

_[. . .]_

_. . . Please do not put me in the position of a nag, darling. You have not yet written to me about your plans for the holiday. You have put in a request for leave, haven't you? Am I to expect you at home? It would be nice to have you home in time for Christmas, though I understand it can be difficult arranging the particulars -- there must be many men who wish to go home to their families -- but as it is so close to your time, it certainly would be quite a reasonable request, I expect. So long as you are home in January; I hate the thought of you being without when you need me most._

_In the meantime, do keep me in mind. With all my love,_

_Your wife,_

_Lydia_

~ * ~

_December 19, 1917_

_Husband,_

_I understand the difficulty in which your situation places you. Nevertheless, I do not look forward to another holiday without you. I know you feel it most politic to stay for your recent advancement, and of course I agree that needs must; do as you will, then. I suppose it is unrealistic of me to expect that you spit in the face of it, as you have so many other things._

_Your Wife_

~ * ~

Benjamin holds the latest missive from his wife -- note, more like -- open and studies it a while longer. It is the brevity that cuts at him more than anything. Lydia is as effusively social as he is (they'd be a poor match otherwise) and nothing brings home her unhappiness more than so brusque a message.

He has had his reasons. Benjamin knows he has had his reasons. Lydia expected him home in September, for his rut, and of course he hadn't gone -- not whilst the situation with Will was still undecided. Bloody uncomfortable, that, and easing his frustrations without his omega -- erm. It is . . . honestly best not to recall those events. 

\--Anyway. Benjamin would normally attempt going home for January; he had the leave approved, even -- but recent events have rendered it unnecessary. As he is now pacing Will, the rut for which she expected to care has already passed. Being promoted, too, preoccupied him. 

There is a touch on his shoulder, light, drawing his attention: Will. Benjamin instinctively covers Will's hand with his own and looks up at him, noting the slight frown -- Will is concerned. "Just a letter from home," Benjamin reassures the other man as he folds it away. 

"Is everything all right?" Will asks. 

Benjamin does not think he imagines the flicker of anxiety in Will's expression. It is Benjamin who censored Will's letter to his wife a week ago -- Benjamin doesn't need to ask to know the effort sending it demanded of him. He can imagine all too well the fears Will carries.

As warmly as he can manage, Benjamin squeezes the hand beneath his. As the lines around Will's eyes fade slightly, Benjamin feels himself relax, too. "Absolutely," he replies. "She just wants to know when I can next request leave is all." 

Benjamin _can_ take the time to go home, he thinks, as Will nods and turns to pour them both tea. Really, the only obstruction are his duties as Major. Benjamin would like to settle firmly into the position, first, and then he can take some time off the line. Surely that is not too much trouble.

~ * ~

Benjamin has been aware for some time that what the Army is doing regarding the presence and treatment of male omegas is unfair. 

The original regulations at the outset of the war were non-existent. It took two spectacularly awful incidents just after Kitchener's Army was called up for Command to hastily write some. So far as Benjamin knows, they were intended as a stop-gap measure; but then they _worked_ (or at least they worked well enough to reduce the possibility of further such problems) and then Command had much larger challenges to concern themselves with. 

Initially promising to prioritise sending male omegas home for leave, Command additionally opted to mandate the care of such individuals be delegated to the commanding officer. It is the male omega's commanding officer who either performs the necessary care to see an omega through or designates someone else to do it if the male omega has a heat whilst not on leave. Pay is withheld accordingly. 

\--And perhaps once, there was some genuine belief that leave for omegas would be possible on a more regular basis. After all, when the alpha soldiers of a unit have all paced each other in their natural rut, it was and still is common practice to rotate units off the line accordingly so the lot of them can work it out at the same time behind the line. As it turned out, though, prioritising leave home for the far and few individual male omegas proved troublesome, and more and more of the burden of care fell on officers. 

Benjamin knows all too well those peculiar decisions an officer can make. Men who have never made a career in the military, faced with the command of soldiers ranging from 50 to 200, tasked with appropriate delegation for subordinate officers, demanded to comply with and answer to Army regulations and, often, to do this all while under fire from the enemy -- well, he can't speak for everyone, but there are many times Benjamin personally recalls doing something he probably could have gotten someone else to do simply because making the effort to track down an appropriate subordinate for the task was more daunting than just getting on with it. Benjamin expects that decisions regarding the male omegas within one's command, especially those omegas who have not already chosen an alpha or who do not have one speaking for them, often wind up getting resolved similarly -- with the officer taking the burden upon himself. 

These days, in early 1918, this matter of how an officer is expected to manage omega soldiers has led to some strenuous objection. Benjamin honestly never considered it himself, though he supposes he of all people should have, and discovers he is suddenly privy to the issue given his role in managing the requests for the one or two days' leave due to heat/rut within the Battalion. So far as Benjamin knows, there are no others in the Devons who are in his position -- an alpha thrust into a claim due to Mackenzie's edict -- but in general, enough officers across the entirety of British forces have complained of being expected to be responsible for the male omegas that there is now a serious effort to scrape together an omega-only unit.

"Is it voluntary?" Benjamin asks when Hepburn drops that bit of information on him (along with the warning that Benjamin will likely be called upon to coordinate transfers) not a month after his and Will's cycle, a few days after the Devons have been moved back to the line. He feels curiously detached, as though he has been poleaxed. 

"I suspect not," Hepburn says distractedly, flipping through the stack of new aerials that were just delivered, "though exemptions will undoubtedly exist. The Regulars have had their ways of managing the issue discreetly, but who knows whether we'll be allowed to continue. Kitchener's will be reorganized, most certainly."

"I see," Benjamin says, still feeling a touch numb. He hasn't the slightest idea why. "When shall the order come through?" he manages to make himself say.

"God only knows," Hepburn replies, which means he certainly doesn't. Likely they won't have any warning whatsoever. "Thinking about yours?"

Benjamin rubs his mouth. "A bit," he says, reluctantly, ignoring the way his heartbeat chokes his breath. "But it'll necessitate more thought later."

If Hepburn is curious, he doesn't show it. --Or perhaps he is occupied with other things. He spreads out one of the aerials on the table and leans over it, pointing to a part of the German line. "Look at this. Intelligence says this part of their line is weakly held; do you suppose we could try for a raid, here?"

That night, Benjamin finds sleep does not come to him. He lies awake for a very long time until he gives in and gets up. On the line, they remain cloistered in Headquarters; here, it is a battered farmhouse, the windows blacked out and the walls sandbagged, a mile from the front line. It is not easy to see Will in the little room they share with the windows so darkened. But there is a light on in the corridor outside the room and Will's cot is nearer the door and both of these things mean that Benjamin can see, faintly, the shape of his omega underneath the blankets -- see the slight rise and fall of his chest, the gilded line of his jaw. 

Will sleeps soundly, his breathing quiet and even. It is powerfully reassuring. Listening to him, Benjamin feels the uncertainty in him settle down, soothed to something less persistent. 

Benjamin can admit that this relationship of theirs is -- good. It is not something Benjamin would have chosen -- or did not intend to choose -- anyway, the point is that Benjamin never desired something like this, but he has it now and it is not unpleasant. Not unwanted. Not -- a lot of things. Not good for his marriage, probably, either, but Lydia isn't here and Will is.

Benjamin finds himself blinking furiously, holding his breath so that it does not hitch. He feels overwhelmed by the need to-- he wants-- 

He takes a deep breath and resists the urge to slide into the cot next to Schofield; that isn't something they've agreed on. Benjamin contents himself with pressing a hand briefly to the side of the man's face and does his best to ignore how his stomach flips when Will sighs and leans into it without waking.

~ * ~

In the days that follow, Benjamin tries not to think about the proposal so much. There is not a lot he can do about it at the moment and the whole thing is . . . unsettling. He suspects that he cares far more about this than he ought to, and Benjamin is afraid to look into that too closely. As it turns out, he does not need to: the position of Major comes with unique challenges when on the line, Benjamin finds, and it is all perfectly designed to keep him from diving too deeply into those more treacherous waters of introspection. 

He has inspections. He has to review paperwork, submitted by adjutant and subordinate officers. He has to coordinate matters with the quartermaster, the cooking staff, the Ambulance units, logistics, transportation, artillery. Benjamin is on call for all hours, more or less, save the ones that Hepburn decrees are sacrosanct -- which is supper and breakfast, chiefly. It is Benjamin's responsibility to field all business when Hepburn is resting, so sleep is in short supply.

It is to this which Benjamin attributes his new lack of patience. Well, not lack of patience, per se; it is more that his nerves are thinner these days. It seems that he is constantly at attention, just a hair jumpier than he should be; he discovers he needs to bite his tongue more frequently on imprecations that come to mind all too easily of late. It is truly vexing. He has never had this problem before, save that awful month after Will's second heat, but Benjamin isn't suffering from a lack of an omega -- Will is with him, after all.

There are moments where this weight of fragile nerves does not settle on Benjamin so much. As frequent as the interruptions at night can be, Benjamin finds that Will's company -- sleeping or otherwise -- is an immense comfort. Unfortunately, though, Will is not the solution to Benjamin's temper. In those periods where his patience is thinnest, Benjamin becomes acutely aware of Will's presence -- usually, the lack of it. 

The worst is when Benjamin must inspect the line. He hates leaving Will alone at Headquarters. Will chafes at this restriction and, after each excursion, is galled at being treated as though he needs Benjamin's comfort -- which he does, actually, anyone can see it -- but truthfully, Benjamin needs it just as badly: needs to check, to reassure himself that Will is all right. The obvious solution is to bring Will with him, but Benjamin hates this even more. Inspecting the line is dangerous and Benjamin can't stand the thought of taking Will along into it. (Never mind that it is immeasurably relieving when Will _is_ with him--)

He just--

Benjamin hates when he goes anywhere without the man these days. The need to touch Will -- even skimming fingertips along some line of Will's uniform is enough -- is unending. True, it eases Will considerably, but Benjamin is uncomfortably aware that he no longer seeks these touches purely for Will's sake. Benjamin realises that he is feeling a constant desire to be close to Will and is very discomfited by it. 

(--It is just such a _relief_ to be with Will! No matter how hard he argues with himself otherwise, Benjamin finds it is hard to give up such an innocent comfort.)

The third week of January is a mess. A thaw has come through and wrought havoc on the line along with a blistering storm: the mud has unfrozen and everyone is wading through a mire. It is utterly miserable for everyone. Hepburn won't accept mud as an excuse, unfortunately -- Benjamin must still make his bloody inspections. 

"So tell me, Richards: is it true?" Hallewell asks him in a casual undertone during one such inspection as Benjamin visits A Company.

Captain Jack Hallewell commands A Company. He is a compact man, a little taller than Benjamin, but proportioned neatly. The son of a well-off butcher before the war, he has a solidity and bulk that comes from the attendant heavy lifting of that trade. Hallewell was promoted up quickly through the ranks despite this humbler origin due in no small part to his sheer competence -- the man is a bloody genius at coming up with tactics on the fly -- and is famous in the Battalion for his love of football. Benjamin likes him immensely.

"Is what true?" Benjamin replies after a moment's consideration. There aren't any obvious topics from their previous conversation, which was about the laxity of the quartermaster in not getting suitable replacements for some of A Company's soldiers' gear, and while Benjamin can say he knows Hallewell better than most, nothing comes to mind as a reasonable subject. 

"I've heard a thing or two from a chum in the 8th Foresters about omegas being pulled into their own unit," Hallewell says quietly, not mincing words. "I figured if anyone would know, it'd be you."

Benjamin glances about them; the only one near enough to hear is one of Hallewell's Lieutenants, who shows only polite interest. Benjamin keeps his own expression as neutral as possible and blesses the fact that this is one of those shorter inspections for which Will has agreed he does not need to accompany Benjamin. Benjamin isn't sure how Will hasn't heard this, but he isn't sure he wants Will to hear it yet, either -- Benjamin would like to avoid the possibility of Will's instincts as an omega kicking in and throwing him into a panic when Benjamin knows absolutely nothing about the unit and won't be able to reassure him.

With Hallewell, though, he can be frank; the man knows when to keep his mouth shut. "Nothing concrete, no," Benjamin replies. "There's some vague chatter, apparently, but we haven't received any directives to that effect."

Hallewell scowls. "Bloody stupid to pull omegas out now," he says, disapprovingly. "When they first show up, sure; but I tell you, the ones with claims? That's going to cause an uproar if Command puts out they're to be split up."

Taking a second look at him, Benjamin judges that -- no, Hallewell is not specifically implying anything about Benjamin's own situation. He is trading glances with his Lieutenant -- Gibson, if Benjamin's memory holds true -- so he is probably speaking out of a more personal interest. "Are there many omegas in claims within the units?" he inquires them neutrally.

Hallewell and Gibson look at each other again. "Well, yes -- all of them," Hallewell replies, bemused. 

"Not Jenkins," Gibson corrects.

"Right. Except for Jenkins. He's new; came in as a new draft when we were in Saint-Omer."

"I beg your pardon," Benjamin interrupts, astounded. "All of them? Really?"

"They certainly are in A Company," Hallewell says, raising an eyebrow. "Weren't they in B Company as well?"

"A few were," Benjamin answers, thinking back through it. He can recall two omega soldiers who were likewise paired with fellow soldiers off the top of his head, but he does not remember if he knew about others at the moment. "Truthfully, I don't think I ever made inquiries about it."

Benjamin sees plainly that Hallewell is surprised by this. He looks at Benjamin askance, clearly aware of Benjamin's own claim -- it is the look of someone who expected a more sympathetic audience. "Well, take it from me, then," Hallewell says slowly, and, mercifully, forbears from remarking upon it. "It's dead useful for them -- those claimed pairs keep it together better than everyone else."

Benjamin cannot help but remember vividly the way Will soothes his rattled nerves just by existing and hastily clears his throat. "Quite so," Benjamin says, hoping Hallewell does not catch his fluster. "I'll certainly have to keep that in mind if we get any substantial word. --For now, though, nothing is planned."

"As always," Hallewell says, a touch dark, and the conversation passes on to other matters.

~ * ~

Benjamin does not realise the full extent of his blunder until Will prompts him to reflect on the circumstances which brought them together.

"Er -- would it have been different otherwise?" Will asks when Benjamin tells him about Mackenzie's standing order for the goings-on within the battalion.

"I think he would normally be the ranking officer in charge of lone omegas from other battalions," Benjamin explains, "or at least, that's my understanding of the Army's current standing order." But why Mackenzie would delegate such care to any passing officer -- any passing _alpha--_

The surge of emotions Benjamin experiences then is astonishing. First and foremost, he feels intense jealousy that chokes his throat and cuts off his words; the thought of Will in another alpha's care -- in another alpha's _arms_ \-- Benjamin wrenches himself off that train of thought as soon as he can manage because _he hasn't the right, this is temporary--_

But swiftly on the heels of _that_ is sheer horror. It is immediate and visceral and hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him speechlessly sickened.

"What?" Will asks. There is a note of command in it that gets Benjamin's attention, dragging him away from the feel of a rolling stomach.

Benjamin looks at him. Will is worried; when Benjamin meets his gaze, Will softens a touch. His concern -- his care -- is obvious. 

Christ -- Schofield did not deserve what happened in April. He deserved so much more than an indifferent Command and uncaring directives leaving him vulnerable to the exploitation of strangers.

Benjamin cannot meet Will's eyes for long; he has to look away. It is not his shame but he feels it keenly just from being party to it, hot and furious and clawing at his throat. "Nothing," Benjamin says aloud, fighting to keep his tone even. "Just -- sentiment. I rather dislike the thought that -- I find I don't care to think about how you were at the mercy of such little consideration."

Desperately, he drinks his tea and makes his excuses. Benjamin knows he turns in uncharacteristically early but he could _not_ care less. He can hardly _think_ with how muddled and sharp everything feels, suddenly, in -- in -- frankly, in the sheer bloody panic he finds he feels, because there is only one thing that matters and it is the realisation that he is absolutely fucked. Benjamin has finally figured out why this business about an all-omega unit has so affected him: he has gone and bloody well fallen in love with his. 

God damn it all.

~ * ~

Benjamin isn't sure if it is a testament to the sense of stability with which the claim gifts them both or if it is Will's innate desire to go home that means Will puts up only a token protest when Benjamin insists he take some leave. It certainly distracts him, and so, for all Will's perceptiveness, Benjamin does not think he has noticed how deeply Benjamin is bothered by the conversation they have regarding their status as the only claimed pair in Headquarters. Will certainly does not notice Benjamin's own surreptitious packing, in preparation for his scheduled leave which he has moved hastily forward.

Going home is a bloody nuisance. For all that the sights, sounds, and smells of England are dearly familiar and a thousand times welcome, Benjamin feels as though his body is leaden and his head is still in France. Resolutely, he puts all thoughts of Will -- Schofield -- and his welfare out of his head; Schofield is home as well, and if he hasn't taken Benjamin's hints to perhaps stay a few extra days-- 

\--Benjamin's stomach knots at the thought of Will at the Battalion without him--

\--No. If Schofield returns before Benjamin does, he can manage on his own for a few days. Schofield _has_ to manage on his own for a few days. 

Their house in London is a pleasant sight. The exterior is gloomy in this weather, but the frieze under the eaves has been freshly plastered and greets him as brightly as the footman, who rushes out to meet him as the motorcar rolls up to the kerb. Just inside the gate, Mr Johnson, the butler, is at hand to welcome him into the house.

\--and there she is.

Lydia has certainly been waiting for the sounds of the door opening; she comes gliding down the stair as though she is lighter than air, the most graceful thing he's seen in months. She is a vision, artfully done up -- but casually so, as she clearly only intended to be at home and ready to receive visitors; nevertheless, the care taken in her appearance is clear. Benjamin recognises the dress she wears as being one of her nicer things, from before they were married. It fits her perfectly. She is gorgeous.

She is gorgeous and Benjamin is not prepared for the sudden breathlessness which the familiarity of her face brings. She sails straight into his arms as he is thus frozen to the absolute scandal of the footman and the butler, both, and kisses him, to their further consternation. Her smile is both mischievous and humorous: enticingly so.

"Hello, darling," Benjamin says, bemused at the enthusiasm. He rather expected something far chillier. She fits in his embrace like always, but this time it is less familiar; though she is nearly his height, tall for a woman, the shape of her is different. He -- has not held one for a while, that is to be sure.

"Benjamin, my love," she says, effusively warm. "Welcome home! Oh, come in -- tell me all about it, dear, yes?"

She is presumptuous and does not let him alone. She shoos off the footman to carry his things to his room, sends the valet to straighten things appropriately, and bustles him into the parlour before he can get a word in edgewise. She plies him with tea and, shortly, he finds himself on a couch with her scandalously close.

Benjamin is thrown off-kilter. He -- from her letters, he knows she has got to be _furious_ with him -- and he is not accustomed to such closeness. Schofield is someone who needs to be approached, not fended off, and the way Lydia perches on the cushions with her whole leg up against his is highly distracting. He can't help shifting, uncomfortably, at which point she dismisses Johnson to "leave them in privacy;" but he seconds her request; and Lydia's gaze is knowing when she looks at him expectantly and his mouth goes dry as she leans in with her whole body.

She is not Schofield when she kisses him, not in the slightest, and it is _fascinatingly_ different (familiar -- different -- _bugger)_ to hold her. Benjamin finds he is not prepared for her forthrightness. He is _certainly_ not prepared for the fact that she is wearing a slip and absolutely nothing else beneath her skirts, but it is wildly exciting, and then he is very suddenly far too occupied to be prepared for anything at all.

"Rather like when we were engaged, don't you think?" she asks him slyly not a quarter of an hour later as she helps him neaten up. She is soft and leans into him as she says it and all Benjamin can bloody think about is how the maids will have a hell of a time with her laundry tomorrow morning.

"I'd rather recreate our wedding night," Benjamin replies. --When he finds the energy. He is rather flustered by his poor showing. Lydia doesn't seem to care, which is . . . something, at least.

One thing he can bless the Army for, though: it only takes him a moment to sort his thoughts. "We haven't any visitors this evening, have we?"

"Of course not," she says, eyes sparkling. "I wanted you all to myself this first night, darling."

~ * ~

Benjamin discovers that it both easier and harder to act his part of a proper husband. Lydia is -- well, before this war, she _was_ his closest confidant. Lydia understood his intentions better than he did, often, and worked actively to support them. The daughter of a politician, she is intelligent, and witty, and attractively imperfect. Her self-consciousness about being only a beta and not an omega as a well-bred woman ought to be, according to society, always endeared her to Benjamin; he likes being married to a real person as opposed to a work of art, which so many of the women of his sphere tend to be. They have been married for four years and Benjamin has spent most of those being exceedingly fond of her for all of these reasons.

Still, he is waiting for her to reproach him. Claiming Schofield -- Lydia has not taken it well, and continues to not take it well. Benjamin is and has been aware of her jealousy of the man for some time; it is plain in every letter she writes. Prior to now, Benjamin has never wanted to be involved in a claim, has never found relations with an omega compelling, and has never been anything less than explicitly clear about this with Lydia. When he married her, Benjamin promised her that he would be her husband and do her no harm. Benjamin promised that he wanted her for who and what she was. 

Before, this _was_ a comfort to her. Now, it is an open insult. Despite all his past denouncements to the contrary, Benjamin has entered into a claim nevertheless. 

True to Lydia's assurances, though, they do not have visitors that evening. The tea is followed by Lydia discreetly granting Benjamin some time to compose himself after all the travel, which in turn is followed by a rich supper and a great deal of good wine. By the end of the day, it is all he can do to attempt such aforementioned recreations (and fail, sadly. He manages one other round before he has to admit he is far too drunk to continue and plies his other skills instead). 

(And -- well. It is not that Benjamin thought the subject would come up during their first evening together again anyway, but he thinks he might have preferred it if it had. Then it would be over with, doubtless.)

"Did you rest well, love?" Lydia asks him in the morning, cuddled up close to him in the bed. She is especially soft without that corset on, and warm, and smiles at him indulgently. 

Benjamin is acutely aware in this moment that admitting to waking up halfway through the night and then fretting the rest of it away -- discomfited initially at the comparably eerie quiet of the city and then from fears of Schofield's homecoming being awful -- would be a horrible misstep. "The best I've had in a long time," he lies instead. She looks so reassured by his words that he is moved to hold her affectionately. She promptly takes advantage of the opportunity to press closer; his response, although sluggish, is still sufficient for extending their bit of a lie in.

Lydia is a force with which to be reckoned. Throughout the next week, she expertly leads him from visits with old acquaintances to group outings in the parks to galas, which, though subdued both from the season and the atmosphere in England, are merry and filled with people who are also interesting and charming. Each day is filled with a new activity. Lydia barely rests, and scarcely permits him the opportunity to find some himself.

Benjamin does not mind this at first. There is something delightfully heady in putting the war behind him to enjoy this time with his wife, full of diversions; for a time, he can put the whole disastrous tangle of his conflicting feelings for his wife and his omega and his duties towards the both of them behind him. For a time, Benjamin can forget that he is not the same person as he was. 

After several days of his best efforts, however, Benjamin finds he feels strained, finds that he craves moments of peace, of quiet, of nothing. He did not anticipate his leave being so active. By the ninth day, he begs off tea at the last minute and Lydia leaves without him. Benjamin's initial delight at a moment to himself turns sour when he discovers that he is so disturbed by the relative calm of home that he cannot relax. What he would give for a quiet night off the line, with--

\--Benjamin almost does not permit himself to finish that thought. He is _home,_ he is with his _wife--_

\--but right at this very second, he is having a cup of tea alone in his study and seized with a sudden, awful wave of melancholy. And there is no reason for it -- none at all -- but what he wouldn't give to have Will here, too. --Oh, but Benjamin is _fucked._

"Well done, Richards," Benjamin says out loud to himself. He finds the brandy and grimly dumps enough of it in his cup to raise the level of liquid nearly to the brim. "Cocked that up, too."

There is a small noise -- he sees the footman, Bradley, start in the doorway. "Pardon me, sir," he says hastily, and flees.

Moodily, Benjamin sips at the cup until the volume is low enough to tolerate a bit of a wobble as he seats himself firmly behind his desk. He wishes desperately that he could work this out with someone -- someone who could offer some insight, perhaps -- but who would know what it is like to be in this position?

\--Well, he supposes glumly, he has no one but himself and no more excuses to put it off: he has to consider his situation. Now seems as good a time as any with his few hours of solitude.

The thing is -- Benjamin is not sure _what_ he feels. And he is not sure he wants to know, either, because -- because--

\--because Benjamin has never desired to be a monster. Schofield is far from monstrous, but loving him over Lydia . . . well, is. 

The alcohol is not enough to blunt the breathless, awful ache that erupts at this admission. Ruthlessly, Benjamin downs the remainder of his tea and throws back another slug of brandy. He needs to do this as dispassionately as possible.

Benjamin knows that it is common for men in his position to take mistresses. He knows that it is common for men, for alphas, to have a lover on the side when their omega wife is not in heat. Worst of all, Benjamin knows damn well that Lydia would never think to divorce him, ever, even should he parade a hundred claimed omegas under her nose: she couldn't, not with how it would ruin her reputation within society. Her only recourse is personal rebuke, but she _isn't doing that either._ It leaves him both lightheaded with frustration and with a peculiarly bitter taste in his mouth.

If Will were here . . . well, Benjamin doesn't know if he would talk to Will about this. If he _should_ open up to Will about this. Benjamin wishes he could, though, because -- frankly -- he finds it easier to talk to Will these days. 

\--Perhaps this is where Benjamin has made his mistake. Perhaps he should have been more open with Lydia at the start. There is much about the war of which he has been required to keep silent for the sake of security; but there is even more that he has not written about in an effort to be sensibly politic for the sake of advancement. Keeping these more mundane things from her -- in her absence, is it any wonder he has turned to Schofield? 

\--It is better if he does not think about that. His breath is coming a bit short -- those are dangerous depths in which to delve. (How can he frame this so that he does not panic when he thinks of it?) 

Perhaps if he thinks of it . . . ah. It is better if Benjamin considers this in terms of his responsibilities, the tangible gestures he must make.

Benjamin owes his loyalty to Lydia. She is his wife. Although their match was suggested, he was not forced into this; he chose to take her as his wife knowing full well she was not an omega and not someone whom he would be driven to protect and provide for to the same extent as he would naturally if she were. He still swore he would do all of those things and so he is responsible for her; and, though she has not yet brought it up, he knows she hates his arrangement with Schofield.

Well, if Benjamin wanted to set his relationship with her to rights, he now has the opportunity to do so. The all-omega unit is an entirely plausible, completely iron-clad excuse that Benjamin can use to justify breaking the claim with Schofield-- 

(Will, who has responded so tangibly -- Will, within whom Benjamin fits so perfectly -- Will, towards whom, even now, Benjamin's thoughts are relentlessly cycling; Will, _Will--)_

\--and Benjamin should damn well seize it. After all, if it _is_ going to happen, it would not even be a perfect excuse. It wouldn't be an excuse at all -- just another order to follow, a directive with which they must comply. Benjamin can't argue with that and neither could Schofield.

. . . and yet. And yet. It is _Benjamin's fault Will is still fighting in the war._ It may have been circumstance which brought the two of them together, but it was still Benjamin's body that fucked Will's and Benjamin's mouth that marked him; it was Benjamin who chose to follow the Medical Officer's advice and claimed him. Moreover, while Benjamin let Will go that first time, he bloody well did not the second time. Benjamin has accepted those obligations of a claim and that means he is responsible to Will to both provide for and protect him as best as Benjamin is able.

These things are immutable. Benjamin has a duty towards Will and -- much though it feels as though it is literally wrenching Benjamin apart -- Benjamin can't do it; he can't foist Will's well-being off onto another. No matter how well-organised the omega unit would be, Benjamin cannot accept anything less than returning Will to his wife; and so long as he is capable of fighting, the Army won't send Will home. 

Benjamin's hands are a touch unsteady as he refills the teacup. Nevertheless, the numbness of alcohol has finally made itself felt. It is a false sense of peace, but it is better than the distressing nerves plaguing him. 

Moreover, he is decided. Benjamin will not pursue the option to separate from Will; he will do his best to ensure Will remains with Benjamin.

. . . and as for Benjamin's feelings -- well, his obligations don't include love. Benjamin will just have to make the best of it and pray he doesn't do something regrettable.

~ * ~

On his last full day at home, Benjamin finally owns up to it: he ought to talk to Lydia before he goes. There is every indication that the Germans will be redoubling their efforts this spring; who knows when (if) he will get the chance to speak frankly, in private, again.

Lydia has gone to her rooms to prepare for some engagement this afternoon. Benjamin has little compunction in interrupting such a time -- it is likely the only time he will get the chance at all. The maid unfortunately gives him away when she squeaks at his silent entrance (he did not bother to knock).

"Benjamin!" Lydia exclaims, covering her mouth in shock. She is still in a robe, which is perfectly fine with Benjamin; she can't claim she is ready for the day without a dress on.

"Lydia," he says, and gestures for the maid to leave. She bobs a curtsey and flees. Benjamin waits until the door closes and he hears her footsteps down the hall before he continues, "Darling, we really should talk."

Lydia objects immediately. "We've tea with the Bransons--"

"And you've never liked the Bransons, any more than I have," Benjamin interrupts, cutting to the chase. "Today is my last day at home and visiting them is  _ not _ how I'd like to spend that time."

"That is a shame. Mrs Branson has become a dear friend," Lydia says after a moment. Her words are oddly clipped and she does not look at him.

"Is that so?" Benjamin inquires politely.

Lydia cannot seem to find a response to that; she picks up her brush and starts to pull it through her hair instead. "Talk, dear," she says, sounding a little more normal. "Whatever is the matter?"

Benjamin feels very tired, suddenly. She hasn't made this possible all during his time at home; it stands to reason she would not make it easy, now. "You know very well what I want to talk about," he says, sitting in a chair. "I want to talk about my situation on the Front."

"Really? But I thought the Colonel liked you!"

"Not that," Benjamin says softly. "I want to talk about my claim with William Schofield."

She goes still for the briefest of moments and resolutely does not look at him in the mirror. "I don't want to speak about that," she says evenly as she resumes her activity. Benjamin notes that she is pulling the brush through her hair with greater force than necessary and steels himself. 

"Really? I felt as though you wanted answers," Benjamin says mildly. "Given that I am here, in person, and not writing it from another country to be read by every censor between Ypres and London, I would have thought you'd jump at the chance."

She turns and throws the hairbrush at him. Ready for it, he dodges in time. It misses him well enough, but the suddenness and the startling smack of sound as it hits the wall have his heart pounding, anyway. 

"How dare you," she says, voice cracking. She is standing now and blazingly angry; he doesn't think he has ever seen her so angry.  _ "How dare you." _

"I'm your husband," Benjamin says, sharp with adrenaline. He is standing too, unable to stay seated. "Of course I bloody well dare! What did you expect?"

"I expected you to remember you had a wife in the first place!" she shouts. She casts about for something else to throw at him and seizes a small hand-mirror, backed in silver; then some trinket box, which bursts and scatters pieces everywhere, and then a little case of cosmetic powder that poofs up in a cloud as it hits the floor. 

His blood is pounding in his ears, but Benjamin bites his tongue until he tastes copper. He evades it all and strides in to grab at her hands and keep her from finding anything else. 

Lydia shrieks and kicks at him instead. "Let go of me!"

Benjamin has never been the sort of man who resorts to blows to get his way and he isn't about to start now. "No," he grits out. "Not until you stop and  _ listen." _

Lydia refuses to look at him; he sees the wet streaks down her cheeks and aches. She struggles against his hold for another moment, aiming a few last kicks, but finally ceases when it is clear he will not let go.

"Of course I remembered you," Benjamin says to her. He repeats it, gentling his tone as much as he is able, and when he starts to wind her into an embrace rather than restraint, she softens. "As if I could forget you, darling."

"And yet," she says bitterly into his shoulder, voice muffled.

Benjamin leans his head against hers and thinks about what to say. "I am sorry," he says finally. More quietly, he adds (lies? Is it a lie?): "If I had the chance, I would have chosen differently."

If she does not believe him, she doesn't show it. "Oh, why did you have to keep him?" she whispers.

At first, Benjamin thinks the question is rhetorical and does not answer. Then, she repeats it, harder.

"He didn't want it," he says finally. Lydia makes an unhappy noise and stiffens, but he thinks she ought to hear this admission of his own monstrous behavior. Privately, this is what horrifies Benjamin the most: that in every other circumstance, what Benjamin did that day would be counted as rape. "Even so gone as he was -- he did not want it. He was out of his mind with a concussion and his heat and couldn't fight me, but I rather wish he had."

"Terrible indeed," Lydia says, frigidly.

Despite himself, Benjamin feels his grip tighten. There is no reason he ought to react, given that he ought to have expected this, but he did not anticipate how deeply her dismissiveness wounds him. 

Ruthlessness, then.

"Yes," he says, matching her tone. "He didn't fight me the second time -- he wasn't even conscious, not really -- and the third time he damn near killed me." She hisses at that, but he doesn't give her the opportunity for another cutting remark and continues with, "The only reason -- the  _ only _ reason he did not is because I made it very clear I was enjoying this as much as he was and said I'd prefer to be home with you."

She is as stone in his arms and seething again. "Then why didn't you?" she snaps, pulling away enough to glare at him. "You put off your leave twice afterwards -- after you had him moved to your Company, when he was finally  _ yours--" _

"Better mine than anyone else's!" Benjamin snarls at her, patience fraying. "If it wasn't me, it'd be some other alpha with him--"

"--as if that's  _ your _ responsibility! You--"

"It is my responsibility!" he shouts, losing his temper entirely. He wants very badly to shake her and lets go of her before he can do that; she backs away from him with her hand over her mouth. "Don't you understand? If I hadn't listened to that Medical Officer's advice and claimed him he would have  _ lost _ the hand he'd injured and he would have bloody well been sent home  _ to his wife! Where he wants to be in the bloody first place!" _

Lydia is against her little vanity and staring at him as though she has never seen him before. 

"Instead," Benjamin tells her savagely, "I told myself it was for his own good and forced the claim on him. It worked; his hand sorted itself and now he cannot go home. They won't send him home for his heats and he cannot say no when they decide who services him. They will keep him there until he is crippled or dead. --And that, Lydia, is very much my fault."

He is aware, suddenly, of how hard he is breathing. His hands are fists and he has the very strong urge to smash something. --And just as his awareness of himself returns, so does Benjamin's sense for reading people. He sees immediately that he has made a terrible mistake.

Lydia is trembling finely, so finely he can only see it in how her hair shivers with it, disheveled and loose as it is. Disbelief is in her expression. Lydia is much like him; very much like him. Like him, she hates to lose -- and like him, she is willing to push further than most would ever dare. Benjamin remembers all this quite calmly, much though his skin pickles with a sudden chill when he sees her back straighten and her mouth set.

"Then you must give him up," she says firmly, expression changing to that of resolution, then sympathy. Despite the steadiness of her voice, there are tears in her eyes. Lydia softens her speech in a manner meant to be persuasive. "It is clear he has twisted you all around yourself; you hardly speak sense! Benjamin, darling -- don't keep doing this to yourself." She pauses, all the better to twist the knife: "Don't keep doing this to  _ me." _

Benjamin cannot even breathe. He ought to have expected this. He knows her, he knows her so well -- and now Benjamin cannot even think why he would have had the idea to start this conversation in the first place. 

Or maybe that is just due to the crushing sense of disappointment. 

He swallows, for all it does little, and wets his lips. The silence stretches. At last, Benjamin finds his voice again and says: "I am sorry, Lydia."

~ * ~

When he leaves the next morning, Lydia does not come down to see him depart. Benjamin imagines he sees her standing at one of the windows in the upper floors, but that is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Addendum to original A/N:** The next chapter is well underway. Expect it sometime in the next week or so! I've been working on this a while but have been especially inspired due to cadastre, who wrote a GORGEOUS companion prequel titled [Allowances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304408)!!! It makes my heart hurt so wonderfully and is just basically flawless! TTATT
> 
> Original A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR YOU GUYS! Anything I can give back to the fandom for such a fantastic year, truly! Slowly, but surely . . . slowly, but surely. --I think that's the mantra of this fic now that it's not just them getting to know each other better through smut! 
> 
> Tremendous thank you to @cadastre -- your continued words of encouragement are so lovely <3 I hope this chapter is equally up to your standards. Much love also to @writeyourownstory, who has helped immeasurably by permitting me to talk her ear off; darling, this chapter would still be mired in TURBO hell, still, had I not been able to talk things out with you <3 Love ALSO to the lovely Officers in the Officers' Club and every one of the fabulous Longfic Lads; y'all are literally the plane upon which my existence is founded.
> 
> Right now I'm going to say there will be one more chapter to this part. If you have read all of _between the crosses_ and are keeping track of the dates in this fic, you can probably guess what's next :) So YES, whump ahoy!


	6. February - April, 1918

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang on there, buddy! If you haven't been here in a while, you will note that 1600 words were added to the end of the last chapter on February 11th. Go read that first -- it will put pretty much all of this chapter into perspective!

When he sets foot back in France, Will finds he is at a loss. It is oddly sudden how the world seems to lose colour once he steps onto the transport to cross the Channel, and back on land in Etaples, everything feels . . . grey. Off. He keeps reaching for something, but it isn't there. 

Well, colour (or the lack of it) has never affected his ability to aim, nor wound, nor witness. Will just needs to get his head on straight.

\--No, that is not quite the truth. What Will needs is Ben. Will catches this thought surfacing in his mind quite calmly in a train headed towards the Front and finds that despite the situation at his post, he feels only exquisite relief at the realisation that he has Someone to whom he is returning. (--But it is not Someone whom he desires; it is only someone he wants. Thank God.)

This mood carries him all the way to the 2nd Devons, currently out on the same part of the line they have been rotating on and off for the last few months. Will finds Headquarters easily enough and slips in fairly quietly, nodding briefly to the Adjutant in charge of the staff, but reporting back officially is another matter: Richards is not present.

Will initially has a flash of panic at the immediate thought that Ben is dead and no one has bothered to inform him. This has the unfortunate result of leaving him paralyzed for some time before Mayhew stumbles across him and rouses him out of it.

"Schofield? Schofield, are you all right?" Mayhew asks in surprise, but it is not until his tone shifts to alarm that Will takes notice.

"Sorry," he manages. "--Beg your pardon. Is Major Richards about?"

"He's on leave, isn't he?" Mayhew replies, bewildered. "--You'd know, right?"

Will feels absolutely bowled over, out like a set of pins on a lawn -- gone with shock and relief, both. But Mayhew is right; after a few moments' worth of reflection, Will thinks he remembers hints of that in those frantic days before he left the line. --He supposes he simply hadn't put the pieces together, preoccupied as he was with the mingled terror and anticipation of returning home himself.

"You're right -- I remember now. Sorry, it slipped my mind," he tells Mayhew. Still, Mayhew looks worried even as Will nods to him firmly in acknowledgement. "Don't suppose you know what I'm doing until he returns?"

Mayhew doesn't, but Lieutenant Nickerson, the adjutant in charge of the general orderlies, does. Will finds, bemusingly, that he is set to work as the cook's assistant, but this turns out to be a stroke of luck: it is a taxing role. With the near-constant demands of the cook, who is tasked with preparing meals for all Headquarters staff, Will finds it easier to ignore his underlying anxiety at being back in the Army without the protective proximity to his alpha.

Fortunately, Richards does return within the week. It is nothing short of a miracle: he arrives very late in the evening the same day that the whole battalion is moved to Bellevue, four days after Will rejoined them. The first Will knows of it is Lieutenant Nickerson sending Mayhew to find him with orders to sort out sleeping arrangements and baggage. Will has already managed to persuade Nickerson to hold a cramped little corner room beneath a stair in anticipation of Richards joining them soon, though of course neither of them expected him to arrive when they had just moved in themselves with communications tangled as they are -- anyway, there is space for them both for the night. Will hurriedly extracts himself from his duties of pacifying the cook and heads for the main meeting room.

Here, Will catches a glimpse of Richards as he reports to Hepburn. Ben looks tired, new lines about his mouth and eyes that speak to recent strain -- probably the travel, Will thinks, and then he catches the faintest trace of Ben's scent across the room and is driven breathless by the sudden, raw need to be physically close. 

Ben meets his eyes for a hugely-relieving moment and stumbles in his response to the Colonel; hastily, he looks away from Will. It is a bit like being slapped. At least it acts as enough of a shock that Will can wrestle his reactions under control, at which point he has enough sense left to him to realise it is for the best. Satisfied for the moment that Ben has indeed returned, Will determines it would be better if he weren't there to serve as a further distraction and gets to work -- he is Ben's batman, after all. 

He takes Ben's baggage to the room and sets about unpacking it. There is an embarrassing amount of time he spends where he finds himself pulling out Ben's things and luxuriating in the scent of his alpha, detectable despite the obvious laundering. However, just as Will catches himself trying to breathe shallowly from the guilt of his own want, he realises: it doesn't matter. The desire Will feels right bloody now is not really desire at all so much as a need. It is the need to hold and be held; the need to feel warmth and weight at his side, a craving for Ben's physical presence; and the true want Will feels is the want for the reassurance _(safe, he is safe with Ben)_ both these things bring. It isn't anything like the desire Will feels for his wife. 

Will is so elated by this realisation that he very nearly laughs out loud. He feels his own mouth spreading wide in a smile he doesn't think he has worn in actual years. 

He is still smiling when Ben finds him while Will is setting his spare uniforms to hang properly in the makeshift wardrobe. "There you are," Ben says with evident relief. He shuts the door behind him as Will hurriedly shoves the rest of the uniforms onto the bar, already reaching for each other. "Thought I'd lost you for a moment there--" 

Will is a little startled at the strength of his own relief. He hadn't thought his circumstances so bad, comparatively speaking, but the weight that falls away from him when Ben embraces him tightly and allows Will to hold him in close is unbelievable. --At least this time, Will isn't crying, he supposes; though he does feel the prick of tears just from the sheer amount of overwhelmingly positive emotions, they are easily blinked away.

In his arms, Ben breathes deeply, then sighs. His scent, stronger and fresher than that on any of his belongings, is immensely comforting and Will has no compunction about burying his nose in Ben's collar. Ben, meanwhile, seems content to cup Will's head close and rest his own against it. The tightness with which he holds Will eases as Ben relaxes.

"I see you got back all right. Is it too sentimental to say I've missed you dreadfully?" Ben says when they separate after another minute. There is a bit of an edge to it, though he clearly intends it to be taken lightly. 

Will can understand. "No. More fool am I -- your leave slipped my mind entirely. I've been here for almost a week."

Ben softens at that for the briefest of seconds, apology and guilt in one fleeting expression. Then he is all business. It is the alpha in him that has him looking over Will critically, tracing the line of Will's tunic absently before squeezing Will's shoulder. "How was your leave?"

"Not as filling as all that," Will says dryly, noting Ben's eyes lingering on the looseness of Will's tunic. 

"What, did they not feed you?" Ben asks, one eyebrow raised. It is a joke, though. Will isn't sure what Ben has noticed, but there is a smile touching the corners of Ben's mouth and his tone turns sly. "Or was it something else?"

Will coughs, feeling the flush that blooms as some of his and Ellie's activities come to mind. "My family kept me busy," he says. 

Ben's smile broadens so as to be plainly evident. "Good man," he says with feeling, clearly reading Will's evasion for what it was. "How are they all?"

Will feels the bit of embarrassment melt away in the face of Ben's apparent interest. "They're well," he says, and moves to help Ben pull off his tunic. He searches for something to add, and settles for: "They were all very happy to see me."

"And your wife?" Ben asks. His hands are brisk as he plucks his own cufflinks out of his sleeves and his tone is light, but there is an odd weight to the question.

Hanging Ben's tunic with the others, Will wonders a little at it. But the question is innocent enough; and Will is happy to share this with Ben. "She is also well," he says softly, struggling to keep his voice steady in the face of the still-overwhelming joy at that blessing. "I am forgiven."

It is not Will's imagination: when he turns back to face Ben, Will sees that this means a great deal to the older man as well. There is great relief in his expression -- and something less obvious, too . . . --But then Ben is positively beaming at him and that other emotion is gone.

With only a little prompting, Will is able to turn the conversation towards Ben. He is initially hesitant, but soon he is rattling off little tidbits here and there -- some gatherings he attended, some show he went to see. Will only half-listens, truthfully; he is content to let the familiarity wash over him. 

The evening closes pleasantly this way. They may be back on the line, but Will finds this doesn't matter to him as much as being back in Ben's company.

~ * ~

They settle remarkably fast back into their routine. Will finds that, now Ben has returned safely, Will is far more aware than he would have envisioned he could ever be in the Army after that first heat away from home. --Perhaps it is foolish, but with the claim bolstering him and Ben's presence as a tangible promise (and Will is allowed to touch him, allowed to reassure himself; he could not bring himself to do it much before, but now, _now--),_ Will finds that he can actually . . . manage, no matter how much gas shelling they are subjected to while they remain at Bellevue or how exhausting the march to the Brandhoek Camp off the line five days later is. Will _has_ an appetite. He _wants_ to talk to people. --Things like that. 

(--Well, all right, mostly he just wants to talk to Ben if he has to talk at all. Will never was a particularly talkative person, though, and Ben means _safety_ and _protection_ from anything the Army can demand Will give of himself; and being with him is not a betrayal of Ellie.)

Will finds it bemusing that it is _now_ that he hits his stride, so to speak. He can still be killed, sure -- but he won't be forced into anything he doesn't want before that. Will knows that distinction, now.

~ * ~

Their first morning in Brandhoek, Will is woken early. It is Ben, doing his best to gently rouse Will; except that Will apparently didn't want to be roused and Ben has to thoroughly shake him awake.

"What's the matter?" Will asks, groggy. He slept well all while he was at home to be sure, but the last few weeks have been harder, what with being on the line. This last night, now that they are in a camp at the rear, was absolutely dreamless, wonderfully, and Will feels rather unhappy at being pulled from it.

Ben rests the palm of his hand against Will's jaw -- his thumb brushes Will's cheekbone. Will leans into it, feeling an instinctive comfort even as Ben answers him with, "Nothing -- sorry, Will. We need to talk." Hastily, he adds, "No -- no, you're fine. Nothing is going to happen that you don't want."

Will is thoroughly alarmed now. He sits up; Ben leans back so that Will has room to properly sort himself. "What?" Will asks, hearing his own voice coming out harshly. Ben looks very apprehensive and Will does _not_ like it; he wants to return to the sleepy security of only a few moments ago. "What happened?"

Ben sighs. He is already dressed, though he has hardly bothered with more than doing up his tunic over the same shirt that he wore when they arrived yesterday; his hair is combed and he has shaved already. "I am sorry," Ben repeats, regretfully, "but I'm due to report in twenty minutes; I couldn't let you sleep longer." 

"What?" Will squints at his watch, and -- oh, bloody hell. Ben isn't waking him early, he is waking Will _late._ "Oh -- damn."

"It's fine," Ben says firmly as Will scrambles out of the cot to neaten his own appearance. If Ben is reporting soon, Will is also expected. "You needed it. --Anyway, there's something I should tell you. I didn't want to say anything until I knew more, but from what Hepburn told me last night, and now that we've a week to rest, there is every chance it will come up in Headquarters soon . . ."

This is how Will learns that there is an effort to rectify the hazy regulations surrounding the treatment of omega soldiers. The idea that he might well be at the mercy of the Army once again (forced to scramble to learn in which new ways he is to be betrayed) leaves Will so numbly unresponsive midway through buttoning up his own tunic that he quite loses track of things. 

There is a bewildering jumble of fragments after that: men swimming in and out of his vision, wearing uniforms or not. All of it leaves him chilled to the bone, so achingly cold that he can't even shiver with it. Some lay hands on him, but Will shrugs them off and retreats as much as he is able; and he ought to have a rifle, but he doesn't-- 

\--Will wakes truly to find he is in Ben's arms, head tucked under Ben's chin and listening to the rumble of Ben's voice through his chest. Will shudders with the renewed sensation. At the very least, Ben is very warm. It allows Will to thaw a little. 

"I won't let them do anything you don't want," Ben is saying, tone strained, close to Will's temple. "There are ways about this. --I'll bloody well let them take everyone else if you need me to."

"What a horrible thing to say," Will croaks. He finds he is able to uncurl enough that Ben can settle in more comfortably where they are sitting on the floor, so that Will is draped over him instead of the other way around. "You like most of the others."

"Not so much as I like you," Ben says darkly. He kisses Will's forehead and strokes his hair and, finally, Will sucks in a breath and discovers he is free to move again.

Ben helps him to his feet. Will does not feel entirely tethered -- there is still an odd detachment to the world, as though he does not entirely exist within it -- but Ben helps him set his appearance to rights and grounds Will with numerous touches throughout. By the time they leave Ben's quarters, Will is more or less firmly settled back into his own body. 

Unsteady as he may be the rest of the day -- Will keeps waiting for the topic to come up; thankfully, it never does -- Will is able to spare a moment to be very, very grateful Ben waited until after Will's leave to tell him about this business of an all-omega unit. If Will had known this before his leave, he hasn't any idea how he would have been able to work things out with Ellie as he did. He wonders how Ben managed it with his wife.

The day is long. Ben is kept very busy; Will makes sure Ben's tea is hot and that he gets plenty of it. The Devons and the rest of the Brigade are in rest for the next week and that at least makes the work less weighty. (It does not make it any less tedious, unfortunately.) --Mostly, efforts are directed at ensuring that the Battalion is in good order and appropriately managed: there had been some recent losses that necessitated a bit of reshuffling, or so Will gathers.

That evening is relaxed, restful. Ben is not swamped with work and takes the time to share a mug of tea with Will. They wind up sitting together on Ben's cot, comfortably close, with Ben reading some new novel ("picked it up on the train out here," he tells Will) as Will sits and darns socks ("darning never ends. May as well get a leg up on it," Will tells him in return). It is quiet; it is peaceful. Will makes his best effort to hold the memory of it tight to him: he will need it soon enough.

~ * ~

That night, Will's sleep is not so dreamless. Twice, Will wakes in the grip of utter despair. 

The first time, caught in a dream of strangers handling him roughly while he tries to escape, he wakes Ben, too. Ben insists that he sit up with Will for a while and does so until Will is soothed back to sleep. 

The second time, trapped in a terrible nightmare of being in heat and surrounded only by the bodies of the dead alphas to whom Will had been forced to turn for help, Will is woken up _by_ Ben. He looks so ill in the lamplight when Will gasps awake that Will does not need to ask what roused him.

"Sorry," he says instead, voice hoarse and face wet. "Sorry, Ben."

"Don't be," Ben says, a little too fiercely to be soothing. He hovers, wary -- Will had not reacted well to being touched earlier -- but Will needs to feel the reality of not being the only living thing around and reaches for him. Listening to Ben's heart for a while is enough to resign himself to try to sleep a third time, but once Ben goes back to his own cot Will finds he just lies awake until it is time to wake Ben for breakfast. 

The next morning drags. Will is tired. He cannot really remember a time when he _wasn't_ tired -- not outside of the liminal, shivery experience of being on the edge of terror -- but his fatigue seems particularly present today. He attends to Richards's needs as is necessary through the long morning meetings and tries not to doze.

"Right, gentlemen, let's get to work," Hepburn says at the end of this one. The room comes alive with rustling. Will blinks himself awake.

"Lance Corporal Schofield -- a word with you, if I may?"

Startled, Will looks up to see that most of the other officers have filed out. Hepburn is waiting patiently, indicating the chair in front of him. Ben is blinking, surprised; then he meets Will's eyes reassuringly, though it is clear he hasn't any idea what this is about either. Will looks back at Hepburn.

"Clear the room, gentlemen," Hepburn says to everyone else. "Major, would you mind making sure no one disturbs us?"

Dismayed, Will looks to Ben. He is standing, but has not left. "Sir, if this is about that unit--"

"It is," Hepburn says calmly. "I'd like a word with the Lance Corporal on the subject." When Ben hesitates, visibly reluctant, Hepburn politely adds, "Privately."

Ben is still for a moment longer, but it is an order. He nods sharply, throws Will a last look that tells Will precisely nothing -- his vision is starting to grey dramatically -- and leaves. 

Somehow Will manages to make himself sit in the indicated chair. The only way out is through. Ben is just outside -- Will is probably safe. _Probably._

When he looks up from the desk between them, Hepburn is watching him thoughtfully -- kindly, even, his usual expression somewhat softer than usual. Will wants to be reassured by this.

"I take it you know about the initiative to put together a segregated unit for omegas?" Hepburn asks him. "I've spoken with one or two of the others on the subject to find out their preferences and I would like to speak with you as well."

"Yes, Sir," Will says. Distantly, he is amazed by how even his voice is; then again, everything feels very cool and absolutely calm. "Major Richards told me yesterday, Sir."

"Good." Hepburn nods. He waits politely for a moment before prompting, "What are your thoughts on the matter?"

Will stares. "I . . . haven't thought about it, really," he says. It is not usually his experience that officers ask his opinion and the prospect of putting his thoughts into words about _this_ is absolutely overwhelming.

"Would you want to be transferred to such a unit?"

"No," Will says immediately. His throat feels scraped raw. "No, I -- would not. At this time. --Sir." If Will had just signed up? Perhaps. But now-- 

Hepburn nods again. His eyes are sharp and he seems to be searching for something as he examines Will. "I am aware that you and the Major are a bonded pair," he says next, choosing his words carefully. "I am also aware that such claims can often influence the feelings of the individuals involved in it . . ."

Will boggles a little, enough to jar him slightly out of his frozen state. Sure, the claim influences you -- but that isn't something he had ever expected an officer to bother acknowledging. --And that isn't how it works for him and Ben, either. "I don't understand what the question is," Will says, feeling uneasy. Is Hepburn insinuating that Ben . . .

Hepburn eyes him with -- something. There appears to be concern in him. 

"Let me tell you a story, Lance Corporal," he says. "A very long time ago, I knew a boy from school who found himself trapped in such a situation as the Army has practically mandated with its appalling regulations. He, too, was claimed. It took some doing to free himself from it. 

"As his friend at the time, I saw what it took for him to overcome that bond," Hepburn concludes bluntly. "And, while I have several testimonies arguing that claimed pairs are nothing but a benefit to our ranks, I am well aware of the degree to which a claim can influence an individual. I know some of those claims were made under duress. Given the nature of Command's directives, I wish to be sure that I am acting in the best interests of all."

Will has no idea what to say to all of that. The recollection is not a pleasant one on Hepburn's part. And, Will thinks, albeit slowly -- Hepburn is right to bring it up. Will hasn't ever really tried to befriend any other omegas, but he has heard the insidious whispers of certain pairs in certain units before; and being claimed without his consent was always a possibility during his heats. It was a nightmare come true, last April.

(But though it may have started that way, that is not what the claim with Ben has turned out to be.)

(And Will knows very well the worth of the Army's promises.) 

\--That is Will's answer.

"I -- see," Will says, almost tasting each word. He knows now that Hepburn is really trying to ascertain whether or not it is Will's actual choice to stay. "Thank you, Sir. That isn't an issue."

"Are you certain?" Hepburn asks, with a finality to his tone that tells Will this is the last chance. 

"I would prefer to stay with Major Richards at this time," Will replies. It is one of those rare times within a very long time that Will knows his own mind -- so free as it can be of everything else. He does his best to convey this in his own firm regard.

"Very well," Hepburn says after a moment. "I will do my best to ensure that your preferences are taken into account."

 _Preferences taken into account._ It isn't a guarantee. Will does not know how to ask for any more certainty and so the interview is ended; Hepburn sends him to call everyone else back into the room. 

Will passes the rest of the day in a sort of haze. He cannot tell whether it is sleeplessness or something worse and hasn't the energy to ponder it overly much; it takes a great deal out of him just to ensure that he is serving tea properly and not botching anything in the meeting room.

Later, when they are alone -- and they aren't, not for hours -- Ben brings Will out of his fugue when they are back at Ben's quarters. He sits Will down on his own cot with a hot, strong cup of tea (complete with a healthy dollop of spirits that Will only notices when he gets to the end of it) and sits next to him, urging Will to drink. 

When it is empty, Will finds that he finally loses his composure. The cumulative effect of the bone-deep chill that has settled in him is a spate of violent shivering.

"Tell me?" Ben prompts gently. He is sitting close, very close: his thigh is pressed up against Will's in a line of warmth. He has a hand on Will's shoulder, squeezing tightly. Both of these touches help Will wake up a little more, points of contact that allow him to cling to reality.

"He wanted to know what my preferences were," Will replies. He examines his own knuckles in fascination: gripping the cup as he is, he can see the grains of dirt embedded in his knuckles, standing out starkly against the white of his skin, along with every bluish vein and faint scar and purplish crease. There is a numb detachment that is settling over him. "I don't want to be transferred and I told him so."

"No?" Ben asks softly. "Are you sure?"

Will wipes his eyes on a sleeve. "Yes," he says, thick, and leans into Ben. Ben is stiff, initially; and then he is marvelously accommodating and lets Will tuck his head under Ben's chin; lets Will lean in to blot out the memory of the day with the present circumstances of a warm embrace. 

~ * ~

It is unquestionably the knowledge that, at any point, the Army might send an order forcing Will to part from Ben which raises Will's old memories to disturb his sleep. The uncertainty of each of his heats prior to last April, when Will was at the mercy of a new man each time -- _a new man, for whom his trust was still unwilling and fragile--_ Will has long kept most of these memories locked tightly away. The mood their resurgence provokes in him is one of great anxiety that is a challenge to functioning normally.

Frustratingly, though his sleep is interrupted, it isn't every evening. Will does not remember his dreams the next night, but the dreams on the night after are quiet things that wake him with their crushing inevitability. Still, Will thinks he manages reasonably well -- he doesn't disturb Ben's rest that evening, after all. 

"How did you sleep?" Ben asks him in the morning when Will tiredly serves him tea.

"Fine," Will lies. Nightmares are part and parcel of being out here on the Front; it isn't as though he hasn't had them before.

Ben catches him carefully, stopping him with a hand on Will's elbow. He doesn't say anything, just looks at Will: he is clearly not convinced. If it weren't for the honest concern that is in his eyes, Will would brush him off. But there is something . . . 

Maybe it is because Will knows this claim isn't like what he has with Ellie, but he feels certain, suddenly, that this is permissible. "Poorly," he admits, quieter, before hastening to add: "Nothing I can't manage." It is not as though Ben can do anything anyway, and Will is certain that he won't be reliving these things for long.

"Tell me if it isn't," Ben says. Will just nods and sets Ben's breakfast out, too.

He doesn't speak about the dread. Will feels that the more he settles into being back on the Front, the more he settles back into the denial of his own existence. It is cruel, how cutting it is to block off his sense of self, but he cannot afford it out here. Will clings to how Ben permits him to sit closely when they are in private and takes comfort where he can. 

Nothing comes of the omega unit while they are at the camp, and there is little more by way of news. Hepburn has a few other meetings with men whom Will can tell are omegas like himself -- those meetings are just as private and closed as Will's was -- but none of them let on anything as they leave and Will hasn't the time to stand around and eavesdrop when Richards takes those times to run errands of his own. It is a terrible strain, the weight of not knowing. Will is very fortunate that Ben does not complain in the slightest about how, on most nights, Will creeps silently into Ben's embrace for several minutes, attempting to steady himself before sleep with the beat of Ben's heart and the warmth of Ben's body.

They are back on the line at Passchendaele when there comes a night where Will's dreams are so violent that he wakes screaming and blackens Ben's eye before he knows what he is doing. The result of this is that Ben flatly insists he share Will's cot for the remainder of the night. Will is initially hesitant -- what if he hurts Ben again? -- but Ben snaps, "It's fucking freezing, Will, let me in," and slides beneath the blankets.

"Is this fine?" Ben demands as Will strives to muster arguments otherwise, turning so that he fits snugly against Will like a child's comfort animal. Gentler, and half-muffled by the pillow, Ben tells him: "For God's sake, Will, I thought you were being killed."

Will cannot answer. As he shakes through the last lingering echoes of the dream, Ben finds his hand and squeezes it. Will doesn't know why this happens, or why he is so upset; he doesn't know why he curls instinctively around Ben, nor why the bulk of him -- slighter than Will in some ways, but infinitely more solid and steady than the last person Will held like this -- should be so comforting.

From there, it seems counter-intuitive to sleep apart. It is Ben who proposes amending their agreement the very next morning. Will, seeing how exhausted Ben looks -- the culmination of responding to nearly two weeks' worth of Will's nightmares -- agrees. This solution does the trick: although Will still dreams, he no longer experiences them to the same level of disruption with such a tangible reminder that he is no longer in those earlier circumstances.

~ * ~

(It is unkind of Will, but he notices things, even in this state of preoccupation.

Ben used to get letters from his wife, regularly. She wrote like clockwork, once a week, whether or not Ben replied to her; and usually Ben replied to her nearly as soon as he received her letter. Ben continues to send letters now but he has not received anything from home -- not since he returned. It reminds Will unsettlingly of that span of time between when he wrote to Ellie about the enormity of his situation back in December to his leave only weeks ago.

Ben is ever-accommodating and ever-kind. Still, there is a distance to him that wasn't there previously. Will wishes he didn't notice, but it is hard not to when it is acutely apparent that it takes Ben long, long minutes to soften and relax every night. In the mornings, Ben wakes first. He is careful never to slip out of Will's grasp, not until Will is aware enough to tell the difference from reality and nightmare; but, as he waits for Will to wake, there is a stiffness in his posture that Will cannot help but feel intimately.

It seems to Will that, even as Will feels free to relax -- to press against boundaries that he now knows for certain exist -- it is not so for Ben. 

\--But Will does not bring this up. He can hardly articulate the difference to himself; this is just a sort of instinctual understanding, founded on the closeness of their circumstances.)

~ * ~

By mid-March, they are off the line and into training well away from the Front. Back in civilization, Hepburn lets all of the officers have the first night and next morning to themselves, more or less, with orders to report the next afternoon for a general meeting of the upper ranks.

Richards and Will are there early, of course. "Good news," Hepburn says to them immediately upon seeing them, brushing aside Richards's salute with a vague gesture. "We've just received word -- Command has agreed that, for the time being, established omega soldiers are not to be pulled into that new unit."

Will blinks, caught flat-footed. The words don't even register properly for him, not right away.

"Established?" Richards inquires.

"Claimed," Hepburn clarifies. "I know the both of you expressed a preference for remaining with each other; you can rest assured that this preference will be honored."

Richards holds perfectly still for a moment before he huffs quietly; his shoulders loosen. He turns to Will and trades a look with him but Will is still absolutely uncomprehending and cannot read anything in it. "Thank you, Sir," Richards says. "That is a tremendous relief."

Will sucks in a breath and finally processes that he feels, of all things, lighter than air. He cannot bring himself to speak, so he just nods sharply and looks hastily at the floor. Richards touches his elbow lightly and directs him to stand in attendance to the side.

By the time he has composed himself adequately, the room has been filled. All the Captains are here, some in better order than others -- they have clearly been making the most of their first night off the line. Will, now somehow incandescently airborne even with his feet firmly planted, is pleasantly surprised that for once the sight of Captain Joseph Blake is not something that prompts dreadful, inescapable grief.

"Right," Hepburn is saying briskly to all the Captains. "It's settled, then -- Command can say what it likes, but the benefits of the omega soldiers currently in our ranks far outweigh the costs. We won't get any new men who are omegas, but I'm not fracturing morale with the Hun due to come calling any time now."

"Is an attack due, Sir?" Captain Darnley, of D Company, asks first.

"If you are asking whether we have concrete intelligence of any impending action on their part, the answer is no," Hepburn replies crisply. "However, I think we all know that an attack is inevitable with the close of the Eastern Front."

There is a general murmur of agreement. Will pays attention to hardly any of the rest of it. It is not for a lack of trying, because he does try -- knows this is important, knows this is something he will want to remember -- but it all slips away from him when he grasps it. He cannot change the future and his present is somewhat slippery, but at the very least -- _at the very least_ \-- it is _his._

~ * ~

The Germans' offensive comes both too soon and not soon enough.

The 23rd Infantry Brigade, of which the 2nd Devonshire is part, is rushed to the Somme to hold the line along the river between the bridges at Eterpigny south to Béthancourt. They don't succeed.

\--Then again, no one succeeds. Richards and Will are thrown right into the thick of it from the start -- everyone in the Battalion leadership, Hepburn included, are prowling amongst the rank-and-file, desperately encouraging, courageously ebullient even as they all frantically set themselves to building rudimentary earthworks along the river. They must hold, they are informed, or the entirety of the 5th Army will be obliterated as it straggles in from its exhausted retreat. --Tactical, of course. The situation is well in hand!

But it is not in hand at all. Scarcely have they unpacked themselves from the trains at Chaulnes are they ordered to the Front. No instructions or information about the river-front is given and maps are scarce -- Hepburn manages to acquire one, and Richards is able to examine it, but most of the officers haven't the time to make themselves familiar with the local in the slightest, and then it turns out not to matter as they have a bare three hours before the first shots from the Western Bank are fired at them.

One of the bridges -- Will cannot recall later if it is the one at Eterpigny or the one at St. Christ -- is not sufficiently demolished. It is still standing and that means the Hun has an easy way across.

It becomes a race to retreat as the forces on either side of the 23rd's position become overwhelmed. On the 23rd and 24th of March they are at the river; the 25th sees them driven back by a mile. By the morning of the 26th they have been forced back another two miles and camp outside of Estrées. It is better than the 25th and 24th Brigades manage -- the Hun are starting to approach their line from the south as well as the east with how far back the rest of the Division have been pushed -- but that is a cold comfort when Richards (and, therefor, Will) have not slept in 26 hours besides a few stolen moments when Hepburn is busy shouting on the lines to the Generals.

All through it, Will does not let Richards out of his sight. Ben hates it, Will can tell, but being close enough to scent or, better, for a discreet touch has an immeasurably steadying effect on Ben. Will could fear more for himself but it seems Will's own internal imperative to survive resets that first night, the very first time Will notices Ben's repressed fury softens and sieves away when Will leans in close during a moment of privacy; and then Will wants nothing more than to ensure that Ben is all right.

Midday on the 26th, the Devons are dragged even further back for a few hours' worth of rest -- most of the evening and half of the night -- before they are woken on the 27th and marched to Harbonnières, north, to sweep through the town and drive back the Germans. It is a success. The other Major -- it is Richards and some other man, sent from Brigade Headquarters -- does not survive; Ben accepts the ragged praise for a satisfactory show with every mark of coolness when they return and does not protest when Will shepherds him to a cot in which they can both curl.

(Ben holds Will, that night, instead of the other way around; and for once it isn't Will who shakes himself to sleep.) 

~ * ~

They fight, and retreat, and stand, and retire. On the second of April the Devons are herded from their position to trucks and officially relieved by the French. No one seems to know which army. The Devons are enbussed, then debussed, then marched, and, finally, they are halted at Breilly. 

Most of the men are barely chivvied to an appropriate billet before they collapse. Richards must hold out longer, and so Will does too, until the two of them are given a cot in a room. They aren't alone -- some other officer, another Major (the one who survived the annihilation of the 2nd West Yorks), bunks with them, though he is whiter than a ghost and scarcely notices a thing they say.

~ * ~

Will's next heat isn't a surprise, necessarily: it is just that, after the hellish last week they have had, Will has to admit he rather forgot that a world existed outside of trenches, nigh-constant explosions, and the absolute slaughter of the rest of the Brigade. Not his fault it has slipped his mind.

\--That is the trite thing to say. He feels shamed when he thinks it, deliriously, upon waking; it is not as though the both of them have not faced death far too often of late for it to be spat on. But Ben is wrapped around him and the safety of being in his alpha's arms is deceiving. 

Will sits up slowly. He doesn't keep his scattered thoughts for long: the shift of his uniform against his skin rasps like sandpaper, or worse, and his collar, loose as it is, is tight enough to choke. Dazedly, he starts to peel off his tunic as Ben stirs behind him, woken by his movements.

There is a hilarious squawking noise. The orderly, Private Mayhew, in the middle of walking in, freezes with the stunned expression of one who has just walked into a wall. It resolves moments later into merely looking horrifically embarrassed as Will stares at him dumbly. "I didn't mean to intrude--"

"Close the door behind you," Ben rasps, one arm snaking around Will's waist to pull him in closer.

Will barely hears the door shut as he protests -- the rough press of his layers is abominable on his skin. Ben's warmth, fever-hot, is welcome, though; it lulls him into complacency as Ben twines his arms around Will and drags him back down.

They kiss. It clarifies Will's thoughts a little.

"We should go to the waystation," he says as Ben moves from Will's mouth to his throat, kissing a line down it. Will cannot remember the last time he woke already in heat; every nerve he has is on _fire._ The rest of what he says emerges as a needy whine at the way Ben's lips seem to catch and drag slightly with each kiss he presses to Will's skin. "This is a shared room--"

Ben doesn't deign to answer with anything so pedestrian as words. He has managed to undo Will's collar and sinks his teeth into the spot where he has marked the claim time and time again. Will hears himself cry out: the sense of security, of belonging, of _rightness_ is overwhelming. It floods through him, a wave of relief that is sheer bliss after the last week.

Ben takes his time enjoying the pliancy this induces in Will whilst thoroughly ensuring this mark will be visible for almost a month. Finally, he stops the noises Will can't help making with his mouth, still hungry. Tasting him so recalls Will to his senses, such as they are: he finds he is doing his best to pull Ben in even closer as Ben busily frees him from his tunic and shirt and braces and trousers. He turns his attention from pulling Ben in closer to pulling off Ben's uniform, but he doesn't succeed by the time Ben starts to work him open and Will loses track of everything for a long, long while.

After, it is almost an offense that Ben is still mostly clothed. Will rectifies this with a distinct sense of petulance, unperturbed by whether or not Ben's buttons are spared his assault. He does not care if he will have to mend them later when he needs Ben to be wholly bare against him, flesh to flesh and bone to bone -- _now._

\--God, it is good. It is _so_ good.

The second bout is more sudden, a honey-slow kiss that heats up in moments and becomes something urgent. Will relishes the way they come together, a spontaneous mutual demand that has them both toppling over the edge simultaneously. 

For a while, there is a period with no urging. Ben brings him water and presses jam-covered bread slices into his hands. The sweetness plucks nerves in him that Will did not know existed. This lasts for some time. (Honestly, Will is not bothering to keep track.)

It is when Ben starts to nuzzle at him even in his doze, instinct driving him to rock against Will's flank, that Will has a moment of clarity that sets everything in focus. Like a single beam of sunlight breaking through iron-grey clouds, a patch of brilliant blue sky that spreads and spreads and spreads, Will feels a considered expectation, a sense of entitlement; a sudden spark of indignation. He doesn't know the particulars of it all, but he knows that Ben is not in favor with his wife; the distance Ben has tried to establish between them is proof enough. 

\--But Ben is _his._ It is time Will made that clear.

Ben is still half-asleep when Will moves his hips in tandem with Ben's, an action that causes Ben to suck in a sudden breath and blink awake. Will hums, intent, and slings his leg over Ben's so that he is on top. Ben watches all the while with dazed rut-based appreciation but somehow he is still startled when Will angles him and transfixes them both without any preamble. He cries out, arching into Will, momentarily overcome.

Will feels strength all through him, power that he can elicit this reaction. He feels the centre of him, the axis, and stretches; finds a languorous pace that makes Ben's breath come short and his eyes turn black. His alpha's face reflects such intense wonder that Will feels his heart in his throat even as his body burns. He has to touch Ben and he does, putting his hands on Ben's shoulders and feeling how that changes the way they align when he straightens his spine and puts more effort into it.

Ben groans, gutturally; it is ripped out of him, a sound that lights all through Will. He wants it, needs more of it, craves hearing it; and it is this desire that prompts him to catch Ben's wrists as he tries to set his hands on Will, uses them as a tether to let himself lean back farther, finding that perfect balance-- 

\--the new angle blasts through him _like fucking lightning--_

\--he is gasping, weightless, and Ben is absolutely wild, fucking up and into Will like he bloody well _means it._ That, more than anything, is what fuels the sudden and savage possessiveness that seizes Will and drives him to lean in and _claim._ He sinks his teeth into Ben as though to rip out his throat and sucks like draining Ben dry were his intent, and this isn't how claims work, they are already bound, but Ben _screams._

The sound reverberates oddly. For long, long moments it is the only thing Will hears, replacing even the thunderous pounding of his own blood in his ears as Ben drives home and locks in place and the pressure in Will swells and becomes--

\--unbearably relieving. The world returns in a rush. They are panting, hoarse, Ben open-mouthed and Will through his nose, as though they have sprinted across a thousand yards of No Man's Land.

Will finds it difficult, devilishly so, to do more than ease his bite. He is affixed here, contended, and Ben's skin tastes deliciously like salt and a bit like iron beneath his lips. Will laps at it like a cat and settles his weight so that he is not smothering.

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" Ben rasps; he is amazed, adoring. He tips his head and presses kiss after kiss to Will's skin, soft, wherever he can reach. When Will shifts a little, Ben shudders and his arms tighten around him; Will subsides, placated.

"Was my turn," Will tells him. Already the momentary clarity is slipping from him, replaced by lazier considerations like how to make himself comfortable enough to doze here. "You're mine too, you know."

Ben laughs, faintly incredulous. Will drifts, comforted by the sound.

Will loses track of their activity. When it is over, he will recall Ben coming to him again and again and again, needy and earnest; and he will remember vaguely how he made Ben welcome with his body; and he will even think back on this time and feel pleasure at the memory. Truthfully, though, the majority of the details are lost to him.

Two things are not:

When they reach the peak, they fight. It is a darker, uglier echo of the third round, at a time when Will and Ben are both much, much less rational and much, much more desperate for each other. Will does not recall quite how it starts -- who said or assumed what -- but he remembers how it ends: each of them snarling at the other, furiously hurt even as they are driven to seek solace from one another. By the time his peak is over, Will hardly knows in which direction he is turned. He only knows that he is not satisfied until Ben pins him to the mattress and fucks him, hard, driving so deeply that Will loses track of what is pleasurable and what is painful.

Sweetly, Ben is nothing but gentleness after, dismayed by his own passion. He apologises repeatedly, anxiously, and is only reluctantly persuaded of Will's well-being when Will patiently accepts sustenance to Ben's satisfaction.

The other thing Will recalls later is how, at the very, very last, they twine. They hardly move: they are already wrapped so tightly about each other that they do not need to do so. As they breathe each other's breath, Will combs Ben's hair with his fingers and cups Ben's face in his hands while Ben smoothes his own down Will's back and kneads the muscles there.

"One last time?" Will whispers, already shifting to make it so.

Ben's choked laugh transmutes into a greedy hum as he slides into place and they are properly reunited. Ben slowly rocks them both with a steady pace that is nothing like the frenzied movement of earlier. This last time they are both mostly lucid and it is soft, and gentle, and sweet; they soothe away minor hurts with lips and caresses before chasing out wakefulness with a final release that feels less like a storm and more like a sigh.

It is the greatest ecstasy Will has ever known.

~ * ~

Will wakes first. He does not move. He stays, and lets Ben nestle closer, and drowses as he waits.

Ben stirs not too long after. He blinks, owlishly, and seems put out that Will is already awake. 

"You needed it," Will murmurs in reply to the unasked question. 

Ben sighs. He is reluctant in a way that Will has not really seen before: instead of getting up, he puts his head back down where it rested on Will's shoulder and lies as though he wishes to fall back asleep. 

Will threads the fingers of his left hand in the other man's hair and rubs tiny circles with his thumb. He is in no rush to get up.

"How do you do this, Will?" Ben asks after a minute of this. He does not seem keen on any distance now: his arm is tight around Will. "How are you so bloody cool about this?" 

Will thinks of what to say. Ben's distress is evident to Will. Ben isn't shaking, but Will's shoulder is damp; too, Ben's breath is uneven. Will wonders when he last received a letter from his wife.

"I need it," Will says finally. "But I love my wife and I _want_ her. My needing you doesn't change that."

An odd tremor goes through Ben. "It isn't that simple."

Will hums. "It is."

There is another minute of silence. Will is content to wait it out, still in the spell of that strange, dream-like peace, and Ben makes no motion to move away.

"Lydia demanded I give you up," Ben whispers at last. "At home, before I returned. I refused."

Will's throat closes. He remembers that fear of being demanded of the same by Ellie, well. To know that Ben is living with the guilt of that, now . . .

"I'm not your wife," Will says quietly. "But I am your omega; and I am your friend."

They stay like this for another span of time, measureless. Ben asks two or three more things, equally hushed; Will gives what answers he possesses. When at last they get up and find their clothes, it is, Will thinks, with a more intimate, shared awareness of their relationship -- its necessity, and its place in their lives -- and with a new understanding of each other. 

Ben tweaks Will's collar to lie properly. "Hungry?" he asks.

"Starving," Will replies, and lets them both out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole fic is basically due to the encouragement and support of two amazing people: @writeyourownstory and @cadastre. Thank you, both of you <3\. 
> 
> To all my readers: this fic means a lot to me in ways that words cannot express; that you guys continued reading, even though A/B/O is such a very particular taste and often well over one's comfort boundaries, means the world. Thank you!
> 
> If you're not ready to let go, check out the fic @cadastre wrote for this! It is next in the series and it is called _Allowances._ It is so gorgeous and heartbreaking; you will not regret it! --Also, there is still more plotted -- I just have no idea when it will be written. But the war isn't over . . .
> 
> Lastly, if you enjoyed this pairing, you may want to check out other things I've written on them. There are a few other anonymous Lieutenant Richards/William Schofield works; they are all mine :P


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